.  r    i 

v 


f 


BEHIND  THE  SCENES: 


A  STORY  OF  THE  STAGE. 


BY 


VERITY    VICTOR.    r>$tu~4 


BOSTON: 
NEW  ENGLAND   NEWS   COMPANY. 

1870. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870,  by 

NEW  ENGLAND  NEWS  COMPANY, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


ELECTROTTPED    AT    THB 

BOSTON     STEREOTYPE     FOUNDRY, 

No.  19  Spring  Lane. 


TO   THE   OPENER. 


OCR  little  Verivic  has  written  this  small  book,  and  it  is  a 
great  comfort  to  us  all  to  see  it  in  print.  It  is  something 
done  —  a  triumph.  The  wisest  man,  they  tell  us,  says  there 
is  no  end  of  this  —  vanity.  We  hope  so. 

The  world  keeps  going  over  and  over,  and  yet  some  of  it 
does  not  "  see  itself  as  others  see  it."  This  seems  a  pity. 
Who  is  there  that  would  not  be  the  better  by  knowing  how- 
he  looks  in  the  eyes  of  others  ?  To  put  a  strong  case,  pos- 
sibly even  the  "  righteous  "  might  be  benefited  by  knowing 
exactly  how  they  and  their  opinions  appear  to  the  "  wicked." 

Books  are  other  people's  eyes  to  see  ourselves  and  our 
pets  with.  Is  it  really  wise  for  the  bad  to  taboo  the  eyes  of 
the  good,  or  the  reverse?  It  is  abundantly  done,  never- 
theless, between  different  classes,  both,  of  course,  esteem- 
ing themselves  pretty  good. 

Almost  every  one  has  opinions,  more  or  less  settled,  in 
regard  to  our  various  social  and  religious  institutions,  in- 
cluding the  stage.  Our  Verivic  has  the  peculiarity  of 
having  seen  the  latter  from  many  points  of  view,  without 
ever  having  been  "  behind  the  scenes  "  of  any  of  the  others, 
and  of  proceeding,  from  first  to  last,  on  the  very  unpopu- 
lar assumption,  that  if  there  is  any  salt  on  earth  that 
retains  its  savor,  it  cannot  and  will  not  shrink  from  famil- 
iarity with  anything  that  needs  to  be  saved. 

(3) 


1703362 


4  TO    THE    OPENER. 

The  adult  theatre  seems  to  Verivic  to  have  unfortunately 
lost  much  of  the  pure  and  natural  spirit  of  the  child's,  by 
the  tide  of  sanctimony  setting  upon  it  so  strong  as  to  drive 
it  even  to  doubt  whether  its  result  is  innocent,  while  it  is 
conscious  that  its  intention  is.  Hence,  perhaps,  out  of 
contempt  for  the  uncharitableness  of  the  onslaught,  it  in- 
dulges in  language  and  manners  most  shocking  to  the 
nerves  of  sanctimony,  but  which,  when  carefully  weighed, 
will  be  found  as  unmeaning,  if  not  as  void  of  profanity  and 
wickedness,  as  some  of  the  prayers  and  conventionalities 
so  highly  valued  outside.  Unseemly  excrescences  were  bet- 
ter avoided  on  both  sides.  Granting  the  wickedness,  if 
charity  can  cover  a  multitude  of  sins,  might  it  not,  and  had 
it  not  better,  prevent  them  ?  Why  not  cherish  and  cultivate 
the  theatre,  as  so  much  preserved  childhood,  useful,  like 
occasional  sleep,  to  reinvigorate  the  earnestness  of  later 
life?  This  is  Verivic's  question. 

If  your  own  opinion  of  this  peculiar  institution,  once 
fondly  nurtured  but  long  since  anathematized  by  the 
church,  is  not  stereotyped  or  copper-faced,  possibly  you 
will  become,  by  a  decree  of  your  own  private  judgment, 
one  of  Verivic's  readers.  What  a  precious  confidence ! 
For  there  is  not  the  slightest  probability  that  any  Sunday 
school  committee,  or  Young  Men's  Christian  Association 
committee,  or  any  Dramatic  Fund  committee,  or  even  any 
Public  Library  committee,  or  the  (Ecumenical  Council  will 
authorize  the  reading  of  this  little  book  at  present.  The 
poor  fledgeling  will  have  to  work  its  own  way  in  the  wide 
world,  or  not  go  at  all  beyond  being  a  blessing  to  the  family 
nest  where  it  was  hatched. 

VERITY'S  PET. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

PAGE 

THE  CHILD  AND  THE  FAIRV.  •  .        .        .        .7 

Abigail's  home.  —  The  children's  theatre.  —  The 
real  fairy.  —  Her  mother  at  home. 

CHAPTER   II. 
THE  CHILD  AND  THE  DEVIL 26 

The  little  princess  and  her  step-mother.  —  Conver- 
sation with  a  mouse.  —  The  "  presiding  elder."  —  Fred 
Somerby.  —  Going  to  the  theatre  on  the  sly.  —  The 
"Bannock's  den,"  and  what  came  out  of  it. — The 
chastisement.  —  Death  and  funeral  of  the  mouse. 

CHAPTER  III. 
THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  KNIGHT.         .        .        .        .55 

The  Meshers  and  their  plot.  —  An  unlooked-for  in- 
terference. —  How  it  proved  a  failure. 

CHAPTER   IV. 
AT  THE  FOOT  OP  THE  LADDER.  .        .        .         .73 

Going  on  as  a  "lady." — James  Hallman.  —  Tom 
Lennox,  the  handsome  manager.  —  Drilling  for  the 
dance.  —  The  ballet-mistress. — The  stage  manager. 
—  The  paymaster. 

CHAPTER  V. 
AN  EPISODE.         .        .         .        .  .        .        .  101 

A  favorable  opening  by  the  sickness  of  the  "lead- 
ing lady."  —  How  she  closed  it  after  a  rehearsal. 

(5) 


6  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER   VI. 
SCENES  IN  THE  DRESSING-ROOMS.         .        .        .  149 

Miss  Fanny  Ceeleius  and  her  ways.  —  Trouble  in 
the  manager's  office. 

CHAPTER   VII. 
THE  MAGIC  OF  THE  ROSE. 161 

How  Gail  took  her  disappointment.  —  The  roses 
she  should'haveworn,  as  Juliet,  withered,  but  not  lost. 
—  The  good  Friar.  —  Another  glimmer  of  hope. 

CHAPTER   VIII. 
STRAWS • 184 

The  Friar's  benefit.  —  Good  Mrs.  Leamingston.  — 
Ceelems  again.  —  Harben,  the  lessor. 

CHAPTER  IX. 
AMONG  OTHER  THINGS,  A  QUEER  DEBUT.     .        .        .  201 

The  plot  of  Nelly's  Fate.  —  Isabel  Lester's  cynical 
views.  —  The  poor  moth  flying  into  the  flame.  — 
Stage  fright.  —  A  bit  of  tragedy.  —  Bringing  down 
the  house. 

CHAPTER  X. 

WHO    IS   TO   MANAGE? 238 

The  effect  at  home.  —  A  visit  from  the  manager.  — 
Miss  Ceelems,  as  the  "  leading  lady,"  rebels.  —  How 
the  management  and  Mrs.  Leamingston  crushed  the 
rebellion. 

CHAPTER  XI. 
EXCELSIOR.  249 

The  ruin  and  its  discovery.  —  Fred  Somerby 
again. —The  dismissal  of  Julie. — The  heart  of  a 
scene-shifter.  — Death  in  the  green-room. 


BEHIND  THE  SCENES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    CHILD    AND    THE   FAIRY. 

THERE  stood  on  a  certain  street  a  tall  brick 
building,  with  a  great  many  small  windows  of 
uncommunicative  aspect,  obscured  sometimes  by 
dingy  wooden  shutters,  and  always  by  dust.  A 
large  entrance,  invitingly  open,  displayed  walls 
with  brightly  painted  panels.  Two  black,  giant- 
lettered  posters,  just  outside,  announced  that  more 
alluring  sights  were  to  be  seen  within.  At  one 
side,  and  down  a  narrow  archway,  where  only 
once  a  day  a  single  sunbeam  stole,  could  be  found 
a  door,  that,  in  the  pure  light,  looked  half  ashamed, 
as  if  it  had  exhausted  its  spirits  in  the  night's 
festivities,  and  just  awakened.  It  was  notched 
and  blotched,  and  with  the  paint  washed  off  in 
streaks. 

To  this  place  there  came  with  the  sunbeam  each 
day  a  little  child,  who  glanced  at  the  old  door 

(7) 


8  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

with  frightened,  hungry  eyes  for  an  instant,  and 
stole  away  as  she  had  come,  softly  and  swiftly, 
passing  the  black  giant-lettered  posters  as  if 
they  dazzled  her. 

The  building  was  the  old  Union  Theatre,  and 
the  child  was  Abigail  Hart.  In  the  neighborhood 
of  the  theatre  was  Abigail's  home  —  a  brick  house, 
one  of  a  block,  that  was  unlike  its  fellows  only 
in  having  a  pleasanter  face,  for  in  a  little  iron- 
fenced  bit  of  ground  before  it  —  a  very  grave-yard 
lot  in  itself —  had  sprung  a  grape-vine,  that  year 
by  year  reached  out  its  delicate  tendrils,  and  clung 
to  the  rough  bricks,  till  in  time  it  became  powerful, 
and  with  its  strong  branches  embraced  the  wall 
that  had  given  it  protection,  and  in  grateful  return 
held  sunshine  in  its  rich  green  foliage  and  purple 
bunches,  to  keep  young  the  soul  of  the  old  house, 
that  at  times  it  might  forget  the  weary  care  and 
noise  of  the  great  city,  and  dream  a  little  of  nod- 
ding tree-tops  far  away,  and  cool  babbling  streams, 
that  ran  between  green  banks  decked  with  the 
bright  blooms  of  wild  flowers.  The  best  bunches 
and  greenest  leaves  of  the  vine  clustered  about  the 
highest  windows  of  the  building,  those  nearest  to 
heaven  and  the  angels,  and  where  daily  seven 
eager  rosy  faces  peered  into  the  wide  world.  The 
room,  wanned  thus  with  the  vine's  sunniest  smiles, 


THE    CHILD    AND    THE    FAIRY.  9 

was  called  by  the  parents  "the  children's  room." 
The  apartment  extended  from  end  to  end  of  the 
old  house,  and  was  oddly  furnished.  Its  walls 
were  papered  with  pictures,  and  a  set  of  long 
shelves  were  covered  with  books.  Study  books, 
story  books,  and  fairy  tales  were  alike  there;  for 
the  rest  there  were  seven  little  desks,  and  as  many 
little  chairs,  a  piano,  an  easel,  and  a  huge  box  that 
was  filled  with  toys.  Flowers  grew  in  large  pots, 
and  tame  birds  flew  at  will  among  them,  or  lit  on 
the  pretty  heads  and  hands  of  the  children.  A 
philosopher  had  conceived  the  idea  that  to  educate 
children,  you  had  only  to  turn  them  loose  into  a 
library,  and  an  artist  had  modelled  this  bower  with 
his  own  hands.  When  this  philosopher  and  artist 

| 

combined  had  completed  his  work  all  but  the  soul, 
he  opened  the  room  to  his  seven  little  children; 
and  behold,  it  was  no  longer  a  thing  without  life. 
It  was  no  longer  a  room,  but  a  very  land  of  dreams. 
The  careless,  eager  young  feet  went  dancing  over 
the  flowery  paths  opened  for  them  into  the  won- 
derful world,  through  all  the  books  and  pictures 
abouf  them,  and  tasted  such  fruit  as  fed  the  first 
vague  hankerings  of  deeper  passions  yet  in  the 
germ.  The  children  made  of  this  bower  a  city  in 
the  imaginary  world  in  which  they  lived.  The 
world  was  called  the  "made-up  world,"  and  the 


10  BEHIND   THE    SCENES. 

city,  "  Fosus."  Each  book  was  a  house,  wherein 
dwelt  a  family  of  paper  dolls.  These  were  the 
common  people  of  the  world.  It  had  also  its 
aristocracy.  The  aristocracy  occupied  the  little 
desks ;  and  ink  bottles,  papers,  and  pens  found  an 
abode  where  they  might  be  subservient  to  the 
wants  of  the  elite  —  an  ink  bottle  doing  nicely  for 
a  stove,  and  the  paper  being  turned  to  account  for 
dresses.  "The  wild  country"  outside,  known  to 
grown  folks  as  a  store-room,  grew  old  boxes  and 
bits  of  pasteboard,  that  were  hewn  down  by  the 
presiding  geniuses  of  the  city,  and  manufactured 
into  tables,  chairs,  and  beds  for  the  aristocracy. 
Each  family  had  its  own  home  and  name,  each 
member  its  own  peculiar  voice,  out  of  which  it 
was  not  allowed  to  speak,  and  in  time  its  own 
history,  for  new  events  came  with  new  days. 

There  was  in  the  largest  desk  a  church,  wherein 
weddings  and  funerals  took  place ;  and  in  the 
largest  flower-pot,  under  the  oleander  tree,  was  a 
burying-ground,  covered  with  little  pasteboard 
tomb-stones,  on  each  of  which  was  inscribed  a  tiny 
epitaph.  A  court-house  occupied  the  window- 
seat.  A  theatre  was  built .  of  the  largest  books, 
and  at  night,  so  that  the  big  lamp  always  used  in 
the  children's  room,  and  christened  by  them  the 
".gloomer,"  on  account  of  its  doubtful  effulgence, 


THE    CHILD    AND    THE    FALRY.  11 

could  stand  behind  a  bit  of  green  glass,  and  emit 
a  feeble  green  glimmer  upon  the  stage.  The 
families  would  all  flock  out  of  their  book  and  desk 
houses,  and  occupy  the  miniature  benches  placed 
for  them  in  the  auditory.  Gail  owned  the  man- 
ager of  this  theatre,  whose  name  was  Monsieur 
Belmont,  and  who  talked  broken  English  like  the 
children's  French  dancing-master.  It  was  a  gala 
night  for  the  six  others,  when  Gail  would  consent 
to  play  theatre,  which  she  did  in  this  manner. 
The  little  theatre  had  its  real  orchestra,  for  the 
elder  brother  William,  to  whom  the  piano  be- 
longed, possessed  a  subtile  power,  that  hovered 
about  the  ends  of  his  lithe  fingers,  so  that  he  had 
only  to  make  passes  over  the  keys  of  the  piano, 
and  they  would  become  mesmerized,  and  the  air 
would  be  full  of  music. 

There  were  real  actors  also,  who  all  spoke  their 
parts  in  the  voices  of  the  big  theatre  actors.  Gail 
was  the  "  unseen  power"  of  the  stage,  while  Jenny 
was  the  "genius"  who  gave  breath  to  the  audience. 
Gail  would  conceal  herself  behind  the  book  struc- 
ture, and  make  her  little  puppets  enter^  by  means 
of  a  thread  attached  to  their  waists  —  a  method 
often  attended  by  difficulties  not  encouraging  to 
the  heart  of  manager  Belmont,  who,  being  under 
the  guidance  of  an  unseen  power,  whose  eyes  were 


12  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

muffled  by  a  shawl,  often  saw  his  Juliet  enter  on 
her  head,  and  Romeo,  when  he  should  have  "  taken 
the  measure  of  an  unmade  grave,"  leap  up  like  a 
harlequin,  and  make  a  sudden  exit  through  the  top 
of  the  building. 

This  climax  would  occasion  so  much  breath  to 
be  given  to  the  audience  by  the  "genius"  in  the 
act  of  laughing,  as  to  cause  them  to  disport  them- 
selves in  a  most  unmannerly  way.  The  play 
could  never  be  resumed  till  policeman  Mander 
had  ejected  nearly  the  entire  crowd  for  disorderly 
conduct.  Gail,  who  was  very  much  in  earnest 
about  the  stage,  did  not  enjoy  this  issue  to  her 
play  nearly  as  well  as  her  younger  brother,  whose 
lungs  gave  a  very  rough  voice  to  policeman 
Mander,  and  who  occupied  no  small  time  in 
marshalling  the  refractory  individuals,  one  by  one, 
off  to  his  little  station-house.  The  sister  preferred 
making  actors  of  the  presiding  spirits,  and  an 
audience  of  Judy,  the  stout  servant  girl,  who  did 
nicely  to  "  sit  and  see."  As  Gail  could  not  devise  a 
curtain  to  her  extempore  stage,  the  audience  was 
respectfully  requested  by  the  management  to  turn 
its  back  upon  the  preparations  till  such  time  as  it 
should  hear  the  prompter's  whistle. 

Gail  always  drew  tears  from  her  audience,  but 
Judy's  eyes  were  not  critics. 


THE    CHILD    AND    THE    FAIRY.  13 

The  children  did  not  always  live  in  their  city. 
They  took  long  rambles  with  their  father  through 
woods  and  over  hills,  and  listened  to  the  wonder- 
ful things  he  read  to  them  from  the  open  book  of 
Nature,  which,  indeed,  was  a  most  exciting  book 
to  study  from,  and  one  full  of  pictures.  They 
played,  too,  on  the  Common,  and  on  rare  occasions 
on  the  sidewalk.  They  mixed  very  little  with  the 
other  children,  and  while  they  admired,  and  made 
up  histories,  for  each  little  one  in  the  neighborhood, 
were  shy  and  bashful  before  them.  It  sometimes 
happened  that  they  visited  a  real  theatre.  This 
was  a  great  event  to  them  all,  but  to  Abigail  it 
was  more.  She  drank  there  what  fed  the  secret 
fire  in  her  soul,  while  the  rest  listened,  laughed, 
and  were  amused  like  children.  Abigail  felt  little 
shivers  of  enthusiasm  run  through  her,  and  would 
picture  strange  scenes  before  her,  in  which  an 
ardent  little  being  would  rush  upon  the  stage,  and 
plead  to  be  admitted  within  the  enchanted  portals. 

O,  how  the  bright  lights  and  painted  walls  of 
the  theatre,  and  all  the  gay  faces,  took  possession 
of  her,  while  she  sat  alone  in  the  great  crowd, 
dreaming  her  wild  dreams !  How,  when  the  cur- 
tain fell  in  the  last  act,  her  heart  would  sink  be- 
cause it  was  all  over,  and  she  would  walk  out  in 
silence,  while  the  rest  chatted  merrily  over  the 


14  BEHIND   THE   SCENES. 

play !  On  one  night  the  curtain  rose  to  reveal  a 
new  scene,  far  more  beautiful  than  the  children 
had  ever  witnessed  before.  It  was  a  fairy  scene, 
and  in  it  Gail  beheld,  for  the  first  time,  "the 
fairy."  "When  the  music  ceased,  and  the  prompt- 
er's bell  sounded,  —  a  time  always  of  much  excite- 
ment to  the  children,  —  the  curtain  rose  on  a 
picture  that  made  the  fourteen  wondering  eyes 
open -very  wide.  The  stage  was  all  glittering  with 
fleecy  gold-tipped  clouds,  for  it  was  the  realm  of 
the  spirits  of  the  air,  and  a  circle  of  fairy  beings 
lined  the  centre  of  these  clouds,  gently  stirring 
their  native  element  with  long,  silvery  sticks,  as  if 
it  was  some  ethereal  pudding.  In  their  midst  stood 
Germando,  the  fairy,  by  the  extra  brightness  of  her 
dress  a  trifle  higher  in  the  grades  of  aerial  aristoc- 
racy. Suddenly  the  children  cried,  "  O ! "  and 
Gail's  face  grew  paler  with  the  intensity  of  her 
emotion;  for  a  huge,  dazzling  star  slowly  curled 
its  points  inward,  having  taken  fire,  perhaps,  from 
its  own  brightness,  and  a  radiant  queen  stepped 
forth:  then  the  fairies  all  burst  into  a  beautiful 
song,  that  rose  like  a  sky-rocket,  and  broke  on  some 
very  high  notes,  in  the  words,  "  Behold  our  fai-ry 
queen."  Gail  felt  her  little  hands  grow  cold,  and 
her  lips  tremble,  the  scene  was  so  intensely  excit- 
ing. After  the  song,  the  fairy  queen  commanded 


THE    CHILD    AND   THE    FAIRY.  15 

silence,  in  a  voice  sufficiently  unnatural  to  belong 
to  a  fay,  but  a  voice  that  thrilled  Gail,  it  was  so 
like  the  theatre  and  the  stage.  The  queen  ad- 
dressed herself  to  an  enchanted  prince  and  a  comic 
mortal,  whom  the  children  had  not  before  ob- 
seryed  in  the  superior  splendor  of  the  fairies. 

"Hash  mortal,  what  wouldst  thou  in  these 
enchanted  realms?"  said  the  queen.  "Knowest 
thou  not  that  this  is  the  domain  of  the  spirits  of 
the  air?" 

The  prince  thus  supposed  to  have  trespassed  on 
aerial  premises  replied,  "  Will  your  most  transcend- 
ent majesty  deign  to  award  me  the  magic  rose?" 

"Thankless  mortal,"  responded  the  queen,  "be- 
hold, the  magic  rose  is  thine.  Germando,  conduct 
him  to  the  enchanted  grotto,  there  to  witness  the 
midnight  revels  of  our  fays." 

"  I  obey,  I  obey ! "  shouted  Germando,  who  had 
quite  won  the  children's  hearts  by  standing  with 
her  feet  in  the  second  position,  and  her  cheek 
pursed  up  on  one  side  in  a  manner  most  interest- 
ing, though  a  trifle  suggestive  of  obliviousness  of 
what  had  been  passing. 

The  comic  mortal  withdrew  his  eyes  from  a 
couple  of  revolving  barber-poles  that  had  held  him 
apparently  inthralled,  and  that  were,  indeed,  daz- 
zling, to  smile  upon  Germando,  and  to  say, 


16  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"Charming  Germando,  please  to  conduct  me 
too  ; "  and  the  trio  made  an  exit,  the  fairy  backing 
off  the  stage,  and  describing  imaginary  circles  in 
an  uncomfortable  proximity  to  the  nose  of  the 
enchanted  one. 

When,  after  all  the  bright  intervening  scenes, 
the  green  curtain  finally  shut  out  this  unearthly 
paradise  from  Gail's  eyes,  she  gathered  it  up  in  her 
heart,  drew  a  long  breath,  and  said  to  herself, 
vehemently,  "I  will  be  an  actress."  That  night, 
before  Gail  slept,  she  added  to  her  customary 
child's  devotions,  a  brief  petition  of  her  own. 
"  Dear  Father  in  heaven,  when  I  grow  up,  let  me 
go  on  the  stage,  for  Christ's  sake.  Amen."  Then 
she  tossed  about  on  her  bed,  somewhat  feverishly, 
rehearsing  and  planning  the  little  scenes  for  her 
own  mimic  theatre.  The  next  day  beheld  each 
sister  with  her  pinafore  rolled  up  tightly  about  her 
waist,  and  tied  behind,  and  the  short  delaine  skirts 
of  her  gown  decorated  with  bits  of  gold  paper. 
Jennie,  being  a  slender  girl,  was  selected  as  a  fairy 
queen,  and,  for  lack  of  a  star,  was  mounted  on  some 
chairs,  to  peep  over  the  top  of  a  door.  Gail  repre- 
sented the  prince.  The  material  was  inadequate 
at  best ;  but  when  the  homely  fairies  stood  stirring 
the  air  with  curtain  sticks,  in  short  stuff  dresses, 
among  clouds  that  were  only  shawls,  Gail  touched 


THE    CHILD    AND    THE    FAIRY.  17 

the  scene  with  the  magic  of  her  love,  and  lo,  there 
was  upon  it  a  golden  glow,  reflected  from  her 
imagination. 

Once  the  real  fairy  was  signalled  by  little  Esther 
Hart  from  the  high  window.  There  was  an  im- 
mediate scampering,  and  the  seven  noses  pressed 
themselves  against  the  panes  of  glass.  It  was 
true,  there  could  be  no  mistaking  the  fairy's 
identity,  for  although  she  was  a  little  less  rosy, 
and  a  little  more  freckled  by  daylight,  Gail's 
heart  was  thrilled  by  the  sight  of  very  pink  stock- 
ings, and  a  portion  of  a  fairy  dress  visible  beneath 
her  cloak.  After  this  the  faces  peered  through  the 
window  daily  in  the  hopes  of  again  beholding  the 
happy  child  actress. 

The  street  was  a  place  at  any  time  of  no  little 
interest  to  the  children ;  for  in  -one  of  the  tall 
k  brick  houses — called  by  them  the  "dungeon  keep," 
because  its  blinds  were  always  closed,  and  the 
boldest  child  dared  not  play  on  its  steps — lived  the 
princess,  guarded  by  a  wicked  fairy  godmother. 
The  princess  had  "  long  curling  hair,"  made  of  fine 
threads  of  the  purest  gold,  and  a  face  that  was 
exquisitely  beautiful.  None  of  the  children  but 
Jenny  had  ever  seen  the  princess  "near  to;"  and 
when  Jenny  saw  her,  her  lovely  eyes  and  nose 
were  red  with  weeping  for  the  death  of  a  sweet 
2 


18  BEHIND   THE    SCENES. 

brown  mouse.  The  children  were  sorry  for  the 
poor  princess,  who  wept  and  was  lonely ;  but, 
nevertheless,  they  whispered  mysteriously  to  one 
another  that  it  would  be  a  fine  thing  to  be  an 
unhappy  though  lovely  princess,  and  live  with  a 
wicked  fairy  in  a  dungeon  keep. 

Between  the  dungeon  keep  and  the  theatre  was 
a  terrible  archway,  running  along  the  blind  walls 
of  two  huge  old  buildings,  and  terminating  in 
doors  situated  in  the  rear  of  these  buildings.  This 
place  was  termed  the  Bannock's  den,  and  was 
inhabited  by  a  creature  half  man  and  half  monster, 
whose  domestic  habits  were  eccentric,  as  were  his 
ideas  of  diet.  Though  a  being  of  huge  propor- 
tions, he  was  wont  to  withdraw  into  a  rat-hole  by. 
day,  issuing  forth  only  at  night,  for  the  fell  pur- 
pose of  dragging  in  any  stray  child  that  might  pass 
that  way  alone.  Even  a  big  man,  the  children 
thought,  would  have  to  "run  by  after  it  was  dark." 
Now  that  Gail  had  seen  the  fairy  by  daylight,  a 
new  dream  entered  her  head.  It  began  to  seem 
possible  to  her  that  she  might  one  day  meet  the 
fairy,  and  that,  being  in  truth  a  child,  like  herself, 
the  fairy  might  speak  to  her,  and  being  at  the 
same  time  a  fairy,  might  give  her  the  "  open, 
sesame  "  to  the  mysterious  stage  door ;  for  surely 
it  lay  in  the  power  of  a  fairy  to  change  common 
people  into  actresses,  if  she  had  the  mind. 


THE   CHILD    AND   THE   FAIRY.  19 

Perhaps  with  the  faint  hope  of  this  happy  issue 
Gail  and  her  sisters  ventured  oftener  out  into  the 
street.  They  came,  in  time,  even  to  establish  a  sort 
of  platform  on  the  sidewalk,  in  the  near  vicinity 
of  the  theatre,  and  to  instruct  their  new  com- 
panions in  the  art  of  acting. 

The  little  ones  of  the  street  were  greatly  pleased 
with  this,  as  a  game  particularly  appropriate  to 
the  place,  and  likely  to  strike  with  amazement 
any  passing  actor  or  actress.  In  truth  there  did 
come  about  the  issue  Gail  so  ardently  desired ;  for 
one  day,  as  they  were  occupied  with  their  little 
theatre,  the  fairy  actually  appeared,  radiant  in  a 
pink  dress,  a  yellow  gauze  bonnet,  and  a  spangled 
veil.  In  one  hand  she  held  a  pickled  lime,  from 
which  she  occasionally  took  a  careless  suck,  thereby 
completing  her  conquest  of  the  children ;  for  what 
could  be  more  suggestive  of  worldly  ease  ? 

One  of  the  little  amateurs  —  a  girl  of  a  practical 
turn  of  mind,  and  the  happy  possessor  of  an  old 
broom  —  was  at  the  time  personating  a  woman 
sweeping.  She  rendered  the  part  in  a  fine  shrill 
voice,  and  through  her  nose.  Her  little  spectators 
had  been  much  excited  and  pleased  with  her  per- 
formance ;  but  at  the  arrival  of  the  new-comer, 
the  corps  fell  back,  and  there  ensued  that  period 
of  silence  which  preludes  children's  getting 


20  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

acquainted.  For  the  most  part,  the  little  novices, 
in  calico  frocks  and  pantalets  to  match,  bowed 
bashfully  before  the  "  real  play-actress."  They  did 
not  share  Gail's  worship  of  her,  but  still  felt  much 
awe  on  account  of  her  bright,  fine  dress.  One 
only  among  them,  an  unpoetical  little  girl,  mur- 
mured to  herself,  with  some  defiance,  "  I  hope  you 
see."  The  others  did  not  heed  her.  The  silence 
continued,  and  was  again  broken  by  the  most 
bashful  of  the  party,  who  found  it  easier  to  speak 
to  the  stranger  through  one  of  her  own  com- 
panions than  directly  to  address  her.  "I  guess 
she  didn't  think  much  of  Annie's  making  believe, 
she  seen  so  much  better  herself,  and  her  a  real 
play-actress."  The  other  children  joined  the  little 
speaker,  each  in  her  own  way  apologizing  for 
Annie's  acting.  Annie  herself  only  opposed  the 
current  with  a  few  pouts,  and  then  subsided, 
giving  place  to  the  stronger  attraction.  Suddenly 
a  clear,  sweet  voice  broke  out  from  among  them, 
addressing  the  fairy  herself.  "  We  were  playing 
theatre,"  said  the  voice ;  "  would  you  like  to  join 
us?  Annie  here  was  just  acting  beautifully,  I 
think."  It  was  Jennie  Hart  who  spoke,  and  she 
spoke  with  kindness,  but  with  some  decision. 
There  is  a  magic  in  a  leading  mind  which  tempts 
human  beings  to  follow.  The  children  at  once 


THE    CHILD    AND    THE    FAIRY.  21 

caught  Jennie's  spirit.  It  was  agreed  that  they 
should  resume  the  play  of  theatre,  as  being  the 
most  appropriate  in  the  presence  of  a  real  actress. 
"  Now,  Annie,"  said  Jennie  Hart,  "  we  are  all  ready 
to  sit  and  see ;  so  go  on  with  your  part." 

"  I  daresn't,"  responded  Annie,  promptly.  The 
little  girls  each  began  to  tease  Annie;  but  the 
child  blushed  and  hung  back.  "  "Well,  then,"  said 
Jennie,  herself  a  little  bashful,  "perhaps  Ardel 
will  show  us  what  real  acting  is."  The  children 
of  the  street  glanced  at  one  another,  for  it  was 
current  among  them  that  Ardel's  real  name  was 
Bridget  Smith.  "I  should  hope,"  replied  Ardel, 
"that  I  had  enough  of  that  before  the  footlights." 

The  children  were  silent  at  this,  for  it  seemed  to 
imply  that  what  was  cake  to  them  was  every-day 
food  to  Ardel. 

"  Do  you  know  the  *  Lady  of  Lyons '  ?  "  inquired. 
Ardel,  with  a  condescending  smile. 

"  I  don't,  but  my  mother  does,"  said  Hattie 
Smith,  not  to  be  outdone. 

"I  guess  we  are  too  big  for  that,"  put  in  the 
youngest  of  the  party,  in  whose  mind  was  flitting 
infantile  memories  of  a  game  called  "  Lions  and 
Bears,"  best  played  around  the  legs  of  a  table. 

"  I  could  perform  '  The  Lady  of  Lyons,' "  hinted 
Ardel. 


22  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"O,  do,  if  you  can,"  responded  the  other 
children. 

After  some  giggling,  and  one  or  two  false  starts, 
the  real  actress  commenced  the  real  play. 

Gail  had  taken  no  part  in  the  scene,  for  the 
reason  that  she  was  the  most  interested.  Her 
interest  made  her  timid  before  the  being  she 
would  confide  in.  And  now,  while  Ardel  played, 
Gail's  heart  beat  fast  -with  the  thought  that  the 
play  would  soon  end,  and  she  must  speak  or  lose 
her  chance.  Ardel  turned  to  her  unexpectedly, 
and  said, — 

"  Here,  you  take  me  into  your  house,  and  show 
me  your  dresses  and  picture  books." 

Gail  accepted  the  proposal  with  a  tremor  of 
delight.  The  girls  had  walked  but  a  few  steps, 
however,  when  a  loud,  somewhat  harsh  voice 
called  to  Ardel  to  come  into  the  house,  and  a 
pair  of  blinds  shut,  with  a  slam,  over  a  retreating 
face. 

"Tis  me  mother,"  said  Ardel;  "you  come  in 
with  me;"  and  Gail  felt  herself  drawn  into  the 
doorway  of  a  wooden  building  from  whence  the 
voice  had  proceeded. 

The  room  the  children  had  entered  was  far  from 
clean,  or  orderly  in  appearance.  The  chairs  were 
occupied  by  tinsel  coats,  peasant  dresses,  and 


THE    CHILD    AND    THE    FAIEY.  23 

costumes  of  various  kinds.  On  the  bureau  ap- 
peared the  evidences  of  a  recent  feast;  sundry 
dishes,  fragments  of  food,  and  cigar  stumps  seemed 
quite  at  home  in  the  company  of  the  more  legit- 
imate articles  of  rouge,  powder,  and  a  hair-brush. 
The  bed  was  unmade,  and  the  receptacle  of  a  pile 
of  programmes,  a  tambourine,  and  some  slippers. 
On  tht  footboard  was  nailed  a  string  of  false  curls, 
and  a  pair  of  stockings  newly  pinked.  The  clutter 
gave  the  room  a  noisy  effect,  although  no  one  had 
spoken.  The  dress  of  Ardel's  mother  was  like 
everything  else,  at  loose  ends.  She  was  engaged 
in  fastening  some  of  the  most  rebellious  rips  and 
tears,  preparatory  to  going  out.  On  perceiving 
her  daughter,  she  cried, — 

"  You're  a  nice  girl,  to  go  off  and  leave  me  with 
everything  on  my  'ands  !  You've  no  dress  picked 
out  for  to-night,  and  we're  both  on  in  the  first 
scene.  Now  come,  no  words  about  it;  but  get 
things  ready  for  to-night ;  and  you  might  pick  out 
something  for  me."  The  tone  was  not  ill-natured, 
though  it  was  both  loud  and  harsh.  "  'Ow  do  you 
do,  my  dear?"  she  continued,  observing  Gail. 
"  Would  you  mind  taking  'old  and  helping  Del 
a  bit?  And  may  be  one^of  these  days  I'd  get 
Jimmy  Tucker  to  pass  you  round  in  front."  Dur- 
ing this  speech  a  man  in  shirt  sleeves,  with  a  cigar 


24  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

in  his  mouth,  had  come  in,  and  stood  surveying 
the  party  silently.  "  Who  are  you  ? "  cried  the 
lady  to  this  new-comer.  "  I  don't  know  you :  go 
home." 

The  man,  without  heeding  this  bantering  re- 
mark, responded,  — 

"  On  in  the  last  act  again  —  deuce !  Want  to 
see  how  Harry  gets  along  at  the  Ash  Street,  and 
can't." 

"  Well,  mind  you,"  said  Ardel's  mother,  sooth- 
ingly, "  we  'ave  to  take  things  as  they  come  in  this 
world;  may  be  you'd  get  "Thursday;  the  bill's 
not  up." 

The  man  gave  a  significant  whistle,  as  much  as 
to  say,  "  Catch  them  leaving  the  attraction  out  of 
the  programme,"  and  strolled  off. 

Mrs.  Sands,  who  had  by  this  time  tied  on  a 
dirty  bonnet,  and  whisked  over  it  a  dirtier  veil 
to  conceal  it,  went  out  also. 

The  girls  being  left  alone,  Gail  confided  to 
Del  her  aspirations,  and  Ardel  patronized  her 
with  a  pitying  toleration.  When  they  parted, 
however,  Gail  had  obtained  from  the  little  actress 
the  promise  she  desired. 

After  this  a  great  many  days  passed,  and  among 
them  the  day  Del  had  selected  to  take  her  new 
friend  behind  the  scenes.  It  was  not  until  hope 


THE    CHILD    AND    THE    FAIRY.  25 

had  given  place  to  suspense,  and  suspense  to 
despair,  that  the  child  again  saw  the  fairy.  They 
met  on  the  street.  Del  was  accompanied  by  no 
less  a  luminary  than  the  comic  mortal,  who  by 
daylight  had  all  the  serious  aspect  to  be  imparted, 
by  hair  oiled  and  curled  in  a  large  number  of 
small  rings,  and  a  hat  worn,  with  set  carelessness, 
on  one  side.  Gail's  face  flushed,  half  in  pride  and 
half  in  diffidence ;- she  waited  for  Ardel  to  bow 
first.  Del,  however,  only  raised  her  eyebrows,  and 
talked  very  familiarly  to  her  companion,  enjoying 
the  effect  such  a  happy  conjunction  of  stars  must 
produce  on  any  one  so  moon-struck  as  to  aspire  to 
be  a  planet  also.  The  little  recluse,  educated  in 
no  real-world  school,  drew  back  at  this,  sensitively, 
and  wept  with  an  odd  mixture  of  anger  and  sor- 
row. The  sudden  dethroning  of  an  ideal  her 
heart  had  held  sacred  gave  her  acute  pain ;  and 
yet  the  rough  touch  of  the  fairy  did  not  disenchant 
her  with  the  fairy  world. 


26  BEHIND   THE    SCENES. 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE    CHILD    AND    THE    DEVIL. 

JULIE  WAED  was  the  princess,  and  the  dun- 
geon keep  was  the  place  Julie  called  home.  Out- 
side of  the  dungeon  and  along  the  street  the 
princess  sometimes  sang  softly  to  herself,  for  she 
was  by  nature  a  merry  princess ;  but  she  always 
stopped  at  the  prison  gate,  as  though  there  had 
been  a  funeral  inside,  and  stole  in  noiselessly. 

The  princess  was  afraid  of  the  wicked  fairy  god- 
mother, who  appeared  to  her  in  the  disguise  of  a 
step-mother.  This  step-mother  was  a  woman  angu- 
lar in  body  and  in  soul  also,  a  relic  of  the  old 
barbarous  style  of  religion  that  had  been  well  pre- 
served in  the  family,  and  handed  down  to  the 
present  day  —  the  very  imbodiment  of  all  that  is 
unforgiving,  cruel,  and  narrow  in  the  age  when  a 
person  was  hanged  for  being  so  unfortunate  as  to 
have  the  reputation  of  being  possessed  by  a  devil. 
Such  a  soul  may  have  few  human  sins,  but  plen- 
ty of  inhuman.  If  her  hard  nature  could  have 
hugged  anything,  it  would  have  been  the  motto, 


THE    CHILD    AND    THE    DEVIL.  27 

"Spare  the  rod  and  spoil  the  child;"  as  it  was, 
it  clutched  it. 

When  Julie,  with  the  natural  elastic  spirit  of 
childhood,  recovered  from  the  sorrow  of  her  fa- 
ther's death,  the  hungry  little  heart  began  to  look 
about  for  something  to  love  and  to  be  happy  in, 
and,  finding  a  stone  offered  to  her  instead  of  bread, 
began,  with  babyish  arts,  to  tryjto  draw  from  it  the 
fluid  appropriate  to  her  age;  but  the  system  of 
ptevn  repulses  and  blows  that  met  these  advances, 
and  punished  each  careless  thought  and  act,  so 
soon  alienated  the  child  from  the  mother,  that  Mrs. 
Ward  lost  the  confidence  of  the  little  one,  and 
knew  nothing  of  the  nature  and  needs  of  the  soul 
intrusted  to  her  care.  It  was  enough,  however, 
for  one  so  narrow,  to  see  that  the  child  feared  her, 
and  was  obedient. 

The  little  Julie  was  not  happy,  neither  was  she 
very  unhappy,  for  it  is  as  hard  to  chain  the  spirit 
of  a  child  as  to  catch  and  hold  a  little  ball  of 
quicksilver  between  your  thumb  and  finger;  and 
while  the  step-mother  held  Julie's  body  in  a  servile 
fear,  the  spirit  contrived  to  elude  her,  and  steal  its 
sustenance  from  forbidden  fruit.  It  is  true,  out  of 
school,  the  child's  life  was  a  dull  round  of  work 
and  prayer-meetings,  and  she  could  count  her 
recreations  on  her  two  first  fingers;  still  she  en- 


28  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

joyed  these  two  recreations  witli  a  childish  zest. 
She  called  them  her  "  good  ones."  Her  first  "  good 
one  "  was  a  mouse.  She  had  found  the  little  fel- 
low struggling  to  free  himself  from  a  trap,  and  had 
released  him  with  eager  haste,  and  bore  him,  quak- 
ing, up  to  her  lonely  little  room,  herself  trembling 
not  less  than  the  mouse.  She  made  for  him  a  box 
house,  and  concealed  it  beneath  her  bed.  She 
talked  to  the  mouse,  and  found  it  less  dull  than 
thinking  all  by  herself.  Her  second  "good  one" 
was  the  Sunday  school.  Julie  liked  the  Sunday 
school,  because  she  could  wear  he.r  best  bonnet, 
and  because  she  felt  sure  she  should  have  fallen  in 
love  with  Jesus,  "he  was  so  good  and  so  interest- 
ing ; "  and  then  at  the  Sunday  school  the  children 
all  exchanged  their  real  sympathies  in  the  dumb 
language  of  the  little  animals  and  the  flowers,  that 
the  superintendent  and  the  teachers  could  not 
understand.  One  Sunday  Julie  came  home  from 
school  with  fresh  color  in  her  pretty  face.  She 
straightway  knelt  down  before  the  mouse  to  make 
confession.  "  Look  up,  mouse,"  she  whispered.  "  I 
have  got  a  third ;  yes,  mouse,  and  it's  the  most  de- 
praved of  all.  It's  —  a  —  wicked  —  little  —  lover." 
Julie  made  her  voice  still  lower  at  the  word  "  lover," 
and  blushed.  "His  sinful  name  is  Frederic  Au- 
gustus Sornerby.  He  has  lent  me  a  book,  mouse, 


THE    CHILD    AND    THE    DEVIL.  29 

that  is  not  fitted  for  the  minds  of  the  young.  Isn't 
it  nice  ?  He  slipped  it  into  my  hand,  and  said  it 
was  a  funny  book,  all  about  hobgoblins.  To  say 
the  truth,  mouse,  I've  met  him  once  or  twice 
before.  We  met  by  chance  the  usual  way,  which, 
mouse,  is  not  in  the  way  of  the  Lord,  and,  there- 
fore, not  in  the  way  of  step-mamma.  It  is  all  very 
nice,  but  it  is  not  for  the  eternal  welfare  of  my 
soul;  but  I'm  afraid  I  don't  care  for  the  eternal. 
Amen,  mouse." 

A  certain  man  visited  Julie's  step-mother,  for 
whom  the  child  had  conceived  an  antipathy.  She 
called  him  the  "  Presiding  Elder,"  because  she  had 
once  heard  the  term  from  his  mouth,  and  it  pleased 
her  fancy.  Whenever  she  talked  of  the  presiding 
elder  to  the  mouse,  she  drew  very  near  the  cage, 
and  put  on  a  very  sober  manner.  "I  don't  like 
him  a  bit,  mouse.  He  talks  like  dull  books,  and  he 
can  think  of  nothing  to  say  except  about  rods,  and 
'  such  things,  which,  to  people  like  you  and  me, 
mouse,  the  unelect,  is  personal,  and  makes  us  feel 
ashamed,  whether  or  no.  His  heart  is  hardened, 
too,  and  it  ought  not  to  be,  for  he  is  very  fat.  He 
has  got  horrid  little  eyes,  that  keep  saying  dis- 
agreeable things,  and  making  people  blush  when  he 
isn't  speaking  at  all ;  and,  O,  mouse,  if  he  was  to 
touch  yon,  he'd  make  you  shiver  all  over,  his  hands 


80  BEHIND  THE  SCENES. 

arc  so  damp  and  sticky ;  and  then  he  is  acquainted 
with  seven  devils,  which  I  consider  bad  company ; 
but  then,  he's  not  given  over  to  the  vanities  of  this 
world,  because  he  has  nothing  to  be  vain  about ; 
neither  have  any  of  us,  mouse :  we  brought  nothing 
into  this  world,  and  we  shall  take  nothing  away ; 
which  is  quite  true  of  me  and  you,  for  we  have  got 
nothing  to  take  away;  but  don't  you  be  a  vain 
mouse,  because  you  are  not  even  a  white  mouse, 
but  just  one  of  those  common  brown  mice  that 
are  only  pests.  The  old  cat  will  catch  you  one 
of  these  days,  if  you  don't  look  out  sharp." 

It  sometimes  happened  that  Mrs.  Ward  and  the 
elder  found  it  for  Julie's  moral  welfare  to  attend 
prayer-meetings  without  her.  On  these  happy  oc- 
casions Julie  would  make  believe  her  one  stiff  little 
chair  was  a  rocking-chair,  and  move  herself  back 
and  forth,  while  she  sang,  as  loud  as  she  pleased,  to 
a  bit  of  wood  tied  up  in  a  shawl.  One  night,  as 
Julie  rocked  and  sang,  Fred  came  and  stood  under 
her  window,  and  whistled  very  low.  Julie,  true  to 
her  coquettish  instinct,  pretended  she  did  not  hear, 
and  went  on  with  her  song ;  but  the  singing  had  a 
shy  zest  it  did  not  possess  before.  Fred,  however, 
was  not  to  be  baffled.  He  called  the  name  in  a 
whisper,  but  distinctly.  Julie  pinched  the  wooden 
baby  to  keep  herself  from  laughing,  and  made  him 


CHILD    AND    THE   DEVIL.  31 

repeat  the  name  once  or  twice  more.  Then  she 
peeped  out  of  the  window.  "  Go  away,  you  bad 
boy,"  she  whispered.  "  Don't  you  know  what  will 
happen  if  you  come  so  near  ?  I  told  you  always  to 
stop  and  whistle  at  No.  20." 

"I  know  it,  Julie,"  answered  Fred,  with  much 
excitement.  "  We  should  both  catch  it  if  we  were 
found  out ;  but  we  won't  be.  /She's  gone  away, 
and  I  want  you  to  come  and  go  to  the  theatre 
with  me.  It's  awful  jolly  there.  Come  quick. 
You  needn't  open  the  frcfht  door;  you  can  climb 
down  on  the  trellis,  and  I'll  catch  you  if  ypu  fall." 

Julie's  heart  began  to  beat  quite  fast;  but  she 
drew  her  mouth  down,  and  answered  soberly, 
"  You  won't  catch  me  climbing  down  at  all,  Fred. 
I  should  break  my  neck." 

"  No,  you  wouldn't,"  said  Fred.  "  O,  do  be 
quick,  or  folks  will  see  you,  and  tell.  You  can 
climb  up  again  at  night,  and  nobody  will  know 
you've  been  gone." 

"  Lead  us  not  "into  temptation,"  said  Julie, 
solemnly.  "  For  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of 
Heaven.  Fred,  I  will  not  go." 

"  O,  bother,  Jule !  I  didn't  think  you'd  go  back 
on  a  fellow,"  said  Fred,  half  crying.  "  The  play 
will  begin,  and  we  shall  lose  the  best  part,  and  all 
because  you  will  act  so  plaguy  silly." 


82  BEHIND   THE    SCENES. 

"What  do  they  do  in  theatres,  Fred?"  whis- 
pered Julie,  with  mysterious  awe.  "  I  suppose 
it's  a  very  wicked  place ;  '  the  presiding '  says  so, 
and  he  is  a  very  godly  man,  you  know." 

"  I  dare  say  he  knows,"  answered  Fred,  with 
sarcasm.  "He's  been  there  often  enough,  I'll  be 
bound.  It's  a  very  jolly  place,  Julie,  and  just  as 
good  as  their  old  churches  are.  They  have  danc- 
ing there,  and  a  fellow  sings  a  song  that's  enough 
to  make  you  die  a  laughing." 

"  But  I'm  not  prepared  to  die,  Fred,"  said  Julie, 
again,  with  solemnity. 

"And  there's  an  elopement,  and  a  duel  with 
swords,  and  in  the  third  act  a  murder,  and  every- 
thing nice,"  continued  Fred,  reproachfully,  as  his 
mind  pictured  these  charms  in  the  act  of  passing 
away.^ 

"  But,  Fred,  I'm  tied  at  home  with  the  cares  of 
a  family,"  remarked  Julie,  demurely.  "  If  you  will 
not  fix  your  mind  on  death  and  judgment,  con- 
sider the  mouse." 

"  O,  the  mouse,"  said  Fred,  impatiently ;  "  well, 
darn  him !  I  mean  give  him  a  great  hunk  of 
cheese,  and  come  along.  I  never  saw  such  a 
thing.  What's  the  matter  with  you?  I  should 
like  to  know." 

"  Fred,  I  am  only  thinking  of  Christ  and  holier 


THE   CHILD   AND   THE   DEVIL.  33 

things;  that's  the  matter  with  me,"  said  Julie, 
smiling  secretly. 

"  What  a  tease  you  are,  Jule !  I  think  you 
ought  not  to  act  like  that  towards  me.  If  you 
don't  come  down  quick,  I  shall  come  up  and  pull 
you  down." 

"  Then  I  shall  scream,"  said  Julie. 

%  ' 

"Then  I  won't,"  responded  Fred,  quickly.  "I 
wouldn't  care  if  I  was  caught ;  nobody'd  hurt  me, 
but  they  would  you." 

There  was  a  pause.  Fred  hacked  the  trellis 
impatiently  with  his  knife,  until  Julie  again 
peeped  out  of  the  window,  and  whispered  softly,  — 

"  Fred,  have  you  gone  away  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Fred,  crossly ;  "  but  I'm  going." 

M  Because,"  continued  Julie,  "  I  feel  as  if  I  was 
coming  down.  Yes,  I  feel  as  if  I  was  going  to 
put  on  my  best  bonnet,  and  descend ;  so  you  go 
off  somewhere,  and  look  at  something,  while  I 
climb  down." 

Fred  obeyed  with  alacrity,  and  stood  facing  the 
yard  fence,  dancing  an  impatient  little  hornpipe, 
while  Julie  made  a  ladder  of  the  trellis,  and  then 
ran  to  him,  with  two  bright  spots  burning  in 
either  cheek,  and  an  excited  light  in  her  beauti- 
ful eyes. 

"  O,  my  eye,  what  a  pretty  girl  you  are ! "  said 
3 


34  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

the  boy -lover,  turning  around  smartly.  "  You  are 
the  very  prettiest  girl  in  the  whole  world." 

"It's  the  bonnet,"  said  Julie,  slyly.  "It  is  a 
love.  I  found  the  flowers  myself,  and  pinned 
them  in.  She  would  never  let  me  have  any." 

"It  isn't  the  bonnet,  either,"  answered  Fred, 
scornfully.  "  Other  girls  have  prettier  bonnets,  and 
prettier  dresses,  too,  but  they  haven't  near  such 
pretty  faces.  It's  you,  Julie;  and  if  I  was  you, 
Julie,  I'd  chuck  the  bonnet  off,  when  we  get 
there ;  you've  got  long  curls,  and  you  look  better 
without  it." 

When  they  had  got  beyond  hearing,  Julie 
sniffed  the  fresh  air,  and  was  ready  to  jump  for 
joy.  «O,  Fred,  isn't  it  nice?"  she  said.  "I  feel 
so  light  and  free.  Let's  hop-skip  the  rest  of 
the  way." 

"  No,  don't  let's,"  said  Fred ;  "  people  would 
look." 

"I  know  it's  dreadful  wicked  to  go,  besides 
being  sinful,"  said  Julie,  gleefully ;  "  and  the  theatre 
is  a  dreadful  wicked  place;  but  I  guess  I  like 
wicked  things  and  wicked  people  best.  Do  you 
know,  Fred,"  added  Julie,  slackening  her  pace,  and 
turning  suddenly  sober,  "  I  sometimes  think  when 
I  die  I'd  rather  go  to  —  you  know  —  the  wicked 
place  —  than,  to  heaven,  because  —  perhaps  you 


THE    CHILD    AND    THE    DEVIL.  35 

never  heard  it  mentioned,  but  father  died  with  an 
unrepentant  heart,  and  he  has  gone  there;  and 
if  he's  there,  I'd  rather  be  there  too ;  besides, 
Fred,  you  are  going  there,  too,  when  you  die,  and 
so  is  everybody  that's  pleasant." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Fred;  "but  I  don't  believe 
I'll  ask  old  Unctions  "  —  this  was  Fred's  name  for 
the  presiding  elder  —  "  where  I  shall  go  to  when 
I  die;  besides,  the  theatre  ain't  a  wicked  place, 
no  .more'n  he  is.  Father  goes  there,  and  he's 
good." 

"Is  your  father  one  of  the  elect,  think?"  said 
Julie. 

"  No ;  I  should  hope  not,"  answered  Fred,  in- 
dignantly. "He's  something  a  great  deal  jollier. 
He  knows  how  to  do  a  good  thing,  and  not  blow 
about  it  forever." 

"  But  you  know,  Fred,"  answered  Julie,  shaking 
her  head,  "  it  availeth  not  a  man  that  he  shall  do 
good  if  he  have  not  faith  in  the  word." 

"  That's  the  way  they  always  fetch  us  up,"  said 
Fred ;  "just  as  if  their  word  was  the  word.  Father 
says,  the  word  of  God  is  a  great  deal  too  great  to 
be  contained  in  only  one  book.  It  is  written  in  — 
in  all  nature,  you  know,  and  in  the  brains  and 
hearts  of  all  people,  and  that —  And  I  guess 
he  knows." 


36  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

Julie  shook  her  head. 

"When  we  grow  up,"  continued  Fred,  begin- 
ning to  talk  very  fast,  "  I'm  going  to  marry  you ; 
then  she  shan't  call  everything  pleasant  wicked, 
and  take  it  away  from  you.  You  shall  have  a 
good  time,  and  pretty  things  to  wear  on,  like 
other  people." 

"But,  Fred,"  said  Julie,  archly,  "perhaps  I 
shan't  fall  in  love  with  you." 

"  O,  but  you  will,  Julie,"  said  Fred,  hastily,  and 
blushing  with  confusion,  "  because  it  would  be  so 
plaguy  mean  if  you  didn't.  I  never  shall  love 
any  other  girl  but  you.  Then  we  are  just  the  right 
age  —  you  are  eleven  and  I  am  twelve." 

"  We  are  too  old,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Julie, 
mischievously. 

"You  know  what  I  mean,"  replied  Fred  ;  "  what 
do  you  want  to  pester  a  fellow  for  ?  I  mean  you 
will  be  sixteen  when  I  am  seventeen,  and  that  will 
be  just  right." 

"  O,  hush  ! "  said  Julie.  They  had  reached  the 
theatre ;  the  color  in  Julie's  cheeks  deepened,  and 
she  held  her  breath,  the  lights  in  the  long  entrance 
were  so  bright,  and  the  people  were  dressed  so 
gay  and  fine.  It  was  so  wicked,  but  O,  so  ter- 
ribly fascinating !  Julie  held  Fred's  hand  tightly, 
and  walked  on  tiptoe  up  the  aisle,  as  they  entered 
the  auditory. 


THE    CHILD    AND    THE    DEVIL.  37 

"  You  needn't  be  so  very  still,"  whispered  Fred ; 
"  it  isn't  a  meeting-house." 

"I  fear  it  is  not,"  answered  Julie,  under  her 
breath,  bewildered  and  scared.  "  O,  Fred,  perhaps 
we  had  better  go  home  before  it  is  too  late." 

"  Pshaw  !  Julie,"  said  Fred ;  "  what  a  silly  girl 
you  are ! " 

Julie  ventured  to  steal  a  look  about  the  place; 
it  was  like  the  prince's  palace  in  Fred's  story  book ; 
the  walls  were  all  decorated  with  gold  paper,  and 
there  was  a  great  chandelier,  as  grand  as  any  king 
would  want,  hanging  in  the  centre.  When  she  and 
Fred  took  their  seats,  the  ladies  about  them  glanced 
at  her,  and  then  at  each  other,  and  Julie  heard  one 
of  them  say,  "  What  a  lovely  child !  I  wonder  who 
she  is.  I  never  saw  so  sweet  a  face  before."  Then 
there  was  music.  Julie  had  never  heard  anything 
but  an  organ  and  a  hand-organ ;  but  this  music 
made  her  feel  like  laughing  and  crying  at  the  same 
moment,  and  seemed  to  be  telling  her  all  manner 
of  charming  things,  and  showing  her  all  manner  of 
bright,  beautiful  places,  till  all  at  once  the  music 
changed  to  a  quick,  lively  air,  and  Julie  touched 
Fred's  shoulder,  and  pointed  to  the  stage;  for 
something  like  a  dark  wall  began  to  rise  swiftly, 
and  there  were  children  all  dressed  in  white  and 
gold,  with  garlands  of  flowers,  who  danced  so 


38  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

beautifully,  that,  with  the  music  dancing  in  her 
ears,  she  longed  to  spring  upon  the  stage,  and  join 
them.  Julie  had  never  had  a  white  dress,  and 
the  angels  in  shining  robes  could  not  be  more 
beautiful  than  were  these  children.  Then  came  a 
play  that  was  better  than  a  story.  It  was  more  real ; 
life  was  not  dull  and  long ;  the  people  grew  up  and 
got  married  in  only  a  little  while;  they  did  not 
wear  homely  dresses;  they  talked  and  laughed; 
for  this  was  not  the  tragedy  Fred  hpd  seen,  but  a 
comedy.  They  danced  together,  and  made  love, 
and  there  was  nobody  to  say  it  was  wicked.  Julie 
forgot  she  was  in  a  theatre,  and  all  about  how  she 
h'ad  run  away  from  home,  and  sat  with  eyes  wide 
open  till  the  act  drop  fell  and  was  ready  to  rise 
again,  when  she  would  whisper  to  Fred,  "O, 
look  quick;  it  is  coming  up  again."  But  at  last 
the  green  curtain  fell,  and  the  play  was  over;  the 
lights  were  put  down,  and  eveiy  one  rose  to  go. 
Julie  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  she  and  Fred  walked 
out  in  silence,  with  hearts  too  full  to  speak.  Once 
in  the  street,  however,  Fred  found  his  voice,  and 
said,  "  Well,  Julie,  wasn't  it  nice  ?  " 

"  O,  Fred ! "  sighed  Julie,  and  was  again  silent. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  comic  fellow  would  make 
you  laugh  ?  "  said  Fred,  triumphantly. 

"Yes,  Fred,"  replied  Julie;  "but  what  I  liked 


THE    CHILD    AND    THE    DEVIL.  39 

most  was  those  beautiful  children  that  danced.  I 
can  shut  up  ray  eyes,  and  see  them  now." 

"  Those  wasn't  children,"  said  Fred,  with  em- 
phasis. "  How  green  you  are,  Julie !  they  were  big 
people." 

"  They  wasn't,"  said  Julie.  "  How  small  they 
looked ! "  —  "  Didn't  you  think  that  was  nice,  that 
scene  in  the  woods,  where  he  comes  in  with  a  lan- 
tern ?  "  Fred  began ;  but  Julie  stopped  him  sud- 
denly, and  turned  very  white. — "  O,  Fred,  see  there; 
it's  the  '  presiding  elder ; '  it  really  is."  —  "  Where  ?  " 
said  Fred,  becoming  suddenly  red.  —  "  There,"  whis- 
pered Julie,  not  daring  to  look  around,  "  not  far 
behind  us,  near  the  theatre." 

"  Well,  then,  he's  been  there  himself,"  said  Fred, 
defiantly.  "  So  he  can't  say  anything." 

"  Yes,  he  can,"  said  Julie,  her  teeth  chattering. 
"You  don't  know  him ;  he  can  say  that  he  was  there 
to  report  the  wickedness  thereof.  You  know  he  can, 
and  he  will  too,  and  he'll  tell  about  us,"  added 
Julie,  wringing  her  hands,  and  beginning  to  cry 
faintly.  "  O,  I  wish  we  hadn't  come  at  all."  —  "  If 
he  does,  I'll  punch  his  head,"  said  Fred  between 
his  teeth ;  "  but  perhaps  he  didn't  see  us,"  he  con- 
tinued, glancing  around.  "  He  seems  to  be  going 
in  another  way ;  so  come  along,  Julie,  and  don't  cry." 

The  children  ran  on  breathlessly  a  few  paces, 


40  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

and  then  Fred  said,  "Pshaw!  Julie;  what  a  girl 
you  are  to  take  a  scare !  I  don't  believe  it  was  him 
at  all."  Julie  made  no  answer,  and  the  children 
hastened  on  until  they  reached  the  head  of  the 
street  on  which  Julie  lived.  —  "  Now  I'll  go  the  rest 
of  the  way  alone,"  whispered  Julie.  "  I  can  make 
less  noise  so." 

"No,  you  shan't,"  answered  Fred,  "somebody 
will  run  away  with  you." 

"  No,  they  won't,"  replied  Julie,  with  emphatic 
earnestness ;  "  you  mustn't  go.  I  don't  want  to  have 
people  disturbed,  and  a  great  row  made,  because  I 
want  to  go  to  sleep,  and  see  if  I  can't  dream  it  all 
over  again,  it  would  be  so  nice !  Do  you  know, 
Fred,  I  am  always  glad  when  night  comes  —  to 
dream,  you  know.  So  you  let  me  run  alone,  and 
I'll  watch  my  chance,  and  steal  in  just  as  soft  as 
my  mouse.  O,  Fred,"  added  Julie ;  and  she  heaved 
another  sigh.  —  "  Well,  Julie,"  said  Fred,  tenderly; 
but  Julie  was  silent. 

"  O,"  said  Fred,  "  I  thought  you  was  going  to 
say  something  about  me."  Julie's  eyes  were  fixed 
on  the  stars  and  the  distance,  and  Fred  saw  that 
there  were  tears  in  them.  "Pshaw!  Julie,  what 
are  you  thinking  about  ?  "  continued  he  —  "  death 
and  judgment,  and  such  things." 

"  I  was  just  thinking,"  answered  Julie,  "  that  I 


THE    CHILD    AND    THE    DEVIL.  41 

wish  it  wasn't  wicked  to  go  there ;  for  do  you  know, 
Fred,  it  makes  me  love  God  so  much  better,  and 
feel  so  sorry  for  all  the  unkind  things  I've  thought 
about  him,  and  sometimes  even  about  poor  Jesus," 
added  Julie,  in  a  low  voice  ;  "  and  that  was  so 
wrong;  because  you  know  he  said  that  about 
'  suffer  little  children.'  Good  night,  Fred." 

«  Good  night,  Julie,"  said  Fred ;  « I'll  look  after 
you  till  you  are  out  of  sight." 

The  boy  stood  watching  the  little  fluttering 
figure  till  it  was  lost  in  the  darkness,  and  turned 
away.  Julie  ran  along,  in  truth  very  much  scared 
to  be  alone  in  the  great  dai'k  streets  at  night. 
Suddenly  she  stopped,  and  thought  of  the  "Ban- 
nock's den,"  which  she  must  pass.  Julie  was  fa- 
miliar with  the  legend  of  the  "  Bannock,"  and  the 
place  itself  was  repulsive  enough  in  appearance, 
stained  as  it  was,  and  blackened  with  grease,  lit- 
tered with  old  bones  and  refuse  matter,  the  plank 
flooring  rotten  and  gnawed  away  by  rats.  Julie's 
heart  stopped  beating  for  very  fear,  but  there  was 
no  help  for  it.  She  summoned  up  her  resolution, 
instinctively  closed  her  eyes,  and  prepared  to  run 
by,  when  something  moved  stealthily  out  of  the 
old  archway.  Julie  felt  two  damp  hands  laid 
heavily  over  her  mouth.  She  grew  cold  and  numb 
with  terror,  and  gave  one  frightened  glance  behind 


42  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

her.  What  she  saw  was  not  the  fiery  eyes  of  the 
"Bannock,"  but  the  fat,  repulsive  face,  and  the 
small  browless  eyes  of  the  "  presiding  elder."  If 
the  look  she  saw  in  the  face  had  meant  blows, 
Julie  would  have  been  less  terrified ;  but,  child  as 
she  was,  she  instinctively  felt  the  more  devilish 
purpose  in  the.  mean  leer  of  the  brute.  She  made 
an  effort  to  struggle,  but  she  could  not  move ;  she 
was  paralyzed  with  fright. 

"  Sweet  little  blossom !  Sweet  little  fluttering 
bird ! "  murmured  the  dastard,  huskily,  as  he  pressed 
his  fat  hand  yet  more  closely  over  the  child's 
mouth,  and  began  with  a  show  of  abstraction  to 
draw  her  under  the  archway.  Julie,  frightened  to 
desperation,  forced  the  hand  a  little  from  her 
mouth,  and  uttered  a  faint  cry.  Then  came  to  her 
senses  what  seemed  a  little  flash  of  light,  and  the 
sound  of  footsteps.  The  coward,  alarmed,  released 
her,  and  slunk  into  the  den.  More  dead  than  alive, 
Julie  forced  her  numb  limbs  to  move,  and  ran 
along  the  street  blindly. 

The  alarm  had  been  false,  for  presently  she  heard 
steps  pursuing  her,  that  she  knew  but  too  well. 
This  gave  her  strength  to  quicken  her  pace.  She 
reached  the  door;  it  was  locked.  She  sank 
down  on  the  steps  with  a  pitiful  cry.  There 
was  a  light  inside  that  moved  along  the  entry. 


THE    CHILD    AND    THE    DEVIL.  43 

Julie  knocked  with  all  her  strength.  The  "pre- 
siding elder  "  reached  the  steps  the  same  moment 
that  Mrs.  Ward  opened  the  door.  If  she  had  been 
an  angel,  with  a  sceptre  of  peace  in  her  hand,  in- 
stead of  a  harsh  woman  with  a  rod,  she  could  not 
have  been  more  welcome  to  the  frightened  child. 
Julie  stole  past  her ;  and  now  that  the  danger  was 
over,  the  poor  child  found  herself  sobbing  and  cry- 
ing violently,  she  knew  not  why. 

"  What  is  it,  brother  Mesher?"  said  Mrs.  Ward, 
knitting  her  brow  sternly. 

"  Verily,"  returned  brother  Mesher,  whose  face 
was  souiewhat  paler  than  usual,  and  whose  hand 
shook  a  little,  "  the  sinful  flee  when  none  pursue. 
The  spirit  of  the  evil  one  must  have  entered  the 
guileless  heart  of  the  young  sister,  and  tempted 
her  into  the  path  of  vanity,  for  she  has  this  night 
visited  the  very  nest  of  all  vanities  —  the  theatre.  I 
thought,  at  first,  knowing  your  righteous  and  just 
views  of  the  like  iniquitous  places,  that  my  eyes 
had  deceived  me;  but,  stopping  the  young  dam- 
sel, I  found  it  but  too  true.  The  sinful  heart 
quaketh,"  added  brother  Mesher,  closing  his  eyes 
and  smacking  his  lips  with  a  relish.  "  But  spare 
not  the  rod,  s'ister  Ward,  for  who  spareth  the 
flesh  destroyeth  the  soul." 

"  I  know  my  duty,  brother  Mesher,  and  shall  do 


44  BEHIND   THE    SCENES. 

it.  I  am  obliged  to  you,"  returned  Mrs.  Ward, 
with  a  dark,  hard  look  in  her  face,  that  the  orphan 
girl  knew  but  too  well. 

Brother  Mesher  took  his  departure,  and  Julie 
turned  pale  in  the  appalling  silence  that  followed 
for  a  moment.  She  dared  not  reveal  her  adven- 
ture with  the  hypocrite.  The  purity  of  the  child 
shrank  with  a  mixture  of  terror  and  shame  from 
even  the  thought  of  it. 

Mrs.  Ward  was  a  woman  of  few  words.  She 
did  not  question  and  argue  with  Julie,  neither  did 
Julie  beg  and  promise,  as  another  child  might; 
even  her  instincts  bowed  to  her  inexorable  fate. 
She  trembled,  clasped  her  hands,  and  prayed  for 
strength. 

Mrs.  Ward  beat  her  without  mercy ;  and  when 
the  child  stood  before  her,  white  and  breathless 
with  fear  and  pain,  she  said,  coldly,  "  If  you  offend 
again,  you  shall  be  punished  more  severely." 

When  poor  Julie  lay  awake  in  her  lonely  little 
room,  she  no  longer  cried,  either  with  the  pain  or 
the  shame,  for  there  was  something  in  her  heart 
new  to  it,  something  very  like  hate  for  her  step- 
mother. 

She  lay  quite  still  and  clutched  the  bed-clothes, 
while  her  angry  thoughts  pressed  themselves 
through  her  brain. 


THE   CHILD    AND    THE    DEVIL.  45 

"I  will  run  away,  some  day,  and  live  among 
those  happy  people.  If  she  didn't  strike  me,  I'd 
stay;  but  as  it  is,  I  won't  —  I  won't.  I  love  Satan 
better  than  God;  he's  a  great  deal  kinder  to  peo- 
ple in  this  world.  O,  I  wish  I  was  dead !  "  And 
Julie  pounded  the  pillow  for  emphasis.  "I  wish 
she'd  killed  me  —  that  would  have  been  good.  I 
wonder  how  she  would  like  it,  if  a  great  giant 
came  along,  and  took  away  the  meeting-house 
and  everything  she  thought  was  nice.  I  wish 
one  would,  and  would  fling  the  'presiding  elder' 
clear  off,  where  nobody  would  ever  find  him." 

When  Julie  thought  of  the  "presiding  elder" 
she  shuddered,  and  the  step-mother  seemed  far  less 
detestable.  "  O,  O,  O !  if,  when  they  were  so 
cruel  to  me  to-night,  some  angel  had  come  down 
out  of  heaven,  and  took  me  away  from  them,  they 
would  have  been  sorry,  I  guess." 

Julie's  pride  gave  way,  and  she  began  to  sob  and 
cry  with  so  much  violence  that  she  frightened  her- 
self. She  strove  in  vain  to  be  quiet,  and  to  sleep ; 
but  the  little  body  tossed  restlessly  about  the  bed, 
and  the  golden  hair  mussed  itself  in  her  tears,  and 
made  poor  Julie  yet  more  uncomfortable,  till  at  last 
—  she  hardly  knew  when  —  the  feverish  thoughts 
changed  to  bad  dreams.  She  seemed  to  get  up, 
and  with  her  bare  feet  and  night-gown  glide  softly 


46  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

down  stairs,  and  out  into  the  street!  O,  how 
deathly  still  the  street  was !  How  each  great  house 
seemed  a  tomb,  wherein  sleep  mocked  death !  How 
the  air  was  peopled  with  noiseless,  fluttering  phan- 
toms !  And  as  she  moved  along,  not  walking,  but 
still  gliding,  something  crawled  out  of  a  by-place, 
and  looked  at  her  with  a  white  face,  showed  its 
teeth,  and  snarled.  The  face  seemed  neither  hu- 
man nor  that  of  a  brute.  Its  body  was  huge,  and 
shaped  like  a  rat.  Julie  dared  not  move  her  eyes 
from  the  face,  and  there  came  into  it  the  same  look 
she  had  seen  in  the  "presiding  elder's."  Again 
she  could  not  scream.  The  creature  reached  out 
its  claws  to  clutch  her.  She  sank  down  with  a 
weak,  ti'embling  shock,  and  the  darkness  gathered 
about  her.  She  opened  her  eyes.  She  was  in  her 
own  room ;  but  there,  before  her  bed,  was  still  the 
face.  The  cold  perspiration  stood  on  her  forehead, 
and  her  eyes  remained  fixed.  The  face  faded,  and 
still  Julie  lay  for  some  moments  unable  to  move, 
for  the  air  about  her  seemed  filled  with  other  hor- 
rors, and  she  dared  not  look  around.  She  hid  her 
face  at  last  in  the  bed-clothes,  trembling  and  ex- 
hausted. The  quivering  lips  repeated  the  child's 
prayer  she  had  been  taught  to  say,  for  it  came  into 
this  poor  little  head,  tortured  by  church  fairy  tales, 
what  if  hell  should  be  like  her  dream !  "  I  will 


THE    CHILD    AND    THE    DEVIL.  47 

be  good,"  thought  Julie.  "  I'll  never  go  there 
again,  and  I'll  never  make  fun  to  my  mouse."  In 
her  fear  she  almost  resolved  to  call  her  step- 
mother, but  the  choice  of  evils  was  not  great ;  so 
she  contented  herself  by  feeling  about  for  the 
mouse-box,  and  drawing  it  into  her  bed,  that  she 
might  have  some  living  thing  near  her.  She  tried 
not  to  sleep,  lest  she  should  again  see  the  face ;  and 
while  she  fancied  she  was  still  lying  with  her  hand 
on  the  mouse-box,  the  beautiful  dancers  came  troop- 
ing into  the  room,  and  wafted  her  away  to  where 
there  was  green  grass,  shaded  by  tall  trees,  and 
where  she  danced  with  the  dancers  in  and  out 
among  the  trunks  of  the  trees,  until  the  sun  stole 
in  under  the  shadows  and  touched  her  eyes,  and 
Julie  opened  them  to  find  the  real  sun  shining  into 
her  room. 

With  the  pleasant  dream  and  the  daylight  the 
ugly  phantoms  took  their  flight,  and  left  her  natu- 
ral again.  She  peeped  into  the  mouse-box,  and 
cried,  "Boo,  mouse!"  loud  and  sudden,  that  she 
might  startle  her  little  pet  from  his  slumbers,  and 
see  him  scramble  about  the  box  in  his  efforts  to 
run  away.  When  she  had  effected  this  end,  and 
the  mouse  sat  blinking  and  trembling  in  the  farther 
side  of  his  box,  Julie  laughed,  and  said,  "  Wake  up, 
mouse,  and  say  you  are  glad  to  see  it's  a  pleasant 


48  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

day."  But  she  made  no  confession  to  the  mouse ; 
she  ran  to  the  window  instead,  and  looked  out. 
There  was  the  street  looking  quite  natural  by  day- 
light ;  and  it  came  quite  natural  to  wonder  if  Fred 
would  ever  come  again,  and  take  her  to  the  thea- 
tre. She  looked  back  into  the  room  and  sighed. 
The  room  was  so  dull!  and  the  prayer-meeting 
would  seem  duller  than  ever,  and  even  the  school 
would  be  dull  by  comparison.  She  dreaded  more 
than  ever,  to  descend  into  the  dark  diniirg-room, 
and  sit  under  the  stony  gaze  of  her  step-mother. 
But  the  day  must  be  gone  through  with,  and  other 
days  like  it  must  follow,  and  Julie  could  only  sigh 
and  wish. 

So  many  days,  dull  and  alike,  followed,  with  no 
Fred,  that  Julie's  poor  little  brain  ached  with 
wishing.  Even  the  mouse  was  not  satisfactory. 
She  sighed  to  him  each  day,  "  O,  mouse,  you  are 
so  dull !  You"  are  not  even  so  lively  as  you  used 
to  be.  What  have  you  done,  mouse  ?  Have  you 
joined  the  church,  and  become  a  church  mouse? 
You  are  worse  company  than  Fred ;  and  I  wouldn't 
be  that,  because  Fred  is  only  a  young  man,  while 
you  are  a  fine  gay  mouse,  with  sharp,  diamond 
eyes ;  think  of  that,  mouse."  But  on  one  of  the 
days  Julie  forgot  Fred  and  the  theatre  for  the 
mouse.  Peeping  into  his  little  house,  she  found 


THE    CHILD    AND    THE    DEVIL.  49 

his  poor  little  body  all  limp  and  shrunken,  and  his 
sharp  eyes  blurred,  quite  cold,  and  dead.  The 
child  burst  into  tears  of  real  grief.  The  little 
creature  had  been  almost  the  only  thing  her  loving 
heart  had  had  to  caress.  She  stole  down  into  the 
street  to  wait  till  Fred  should  pass,  on  his  way 
from  school.  Fred  took  lessons  of  a  private 
teacher,  and  Julie's  school  hours  were  always 
over  first. 

While  she  stood  wringing  her  little  hands  in 
distress,  Jennie  Hart  came  by.  It  made  Jennie 
sad  to  see  the  princess  in  tears ;  and  though 
Jennie  was  a  little  bashful  before  princesses,  she 
stopped,  and  inquired  kindly  if  she  could  be  of  any 
service ;  but  the  princess  only  cried  harder.  "  Can't 
I  ?  "  said  Jennie  ;  "  I  should  like  to." 

"O,  O,"  cried  the  princess,  "something  dread- 
ful has  happened;  a  dear,  cunning  little  mouse, 
that  I  loved,  is  dead,"  and  the  princess  burst  into 
fresh  sobs. 

"  O,  it's  too  bad,"  said  Jennie.  "  I  know  what  it 
is  to  lose  a  mouse ;  because  we  lost  a  dear  little 
bird  once.  Should  you  like  to  bury  your  mouse  ?  " 

"  O,  my  mouse !  my  poor  mouse ! "  sobbed  the 
princess  ;  "  and  now  he's  dead  I " 

"  Who's  dead  ?  "   said    Fred,   coming  up  ;  "  the 
« presiding '  ?    Good  ! " 
4 


50  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"O,  no;  my  poor  mouse." 

u  Pshaw,  Julie ! "  responded  Fred,  in  a  very  dif- 
ferent tone.  "  Cat  get  him  ?  Cracky !  Don't  cry 
though !  I'll  give  you  my  marbles  instead ;  or 
stay  —  I'll  catch  you  another  mouse.  Our  house 
is  overrun  with  them.  We'd  just  as  lieve  you'd 
have  one  as  not.  In  fact  we  wouldn't  mind  spar- 
ing two." 

"But  I  don't  want  another  mouse,"  said  Julie. 
"  No  mouse  could  ever  be  to  me  what  he  was.  O, 
now  I  think  of  it,  I  remember  how  he  got  out  of 
his  box  once,  and  gnawed  a  hole  in  my  slipper," 
sobbed  Julie,  overcome  by  this  tender  memory. 
"  I  should  like  to  bury  him,"  she  added,  turning  to 
Jennie. 

"  Yes,  let's  bury  him,"  said  Fred  ;  "  that  will  be 
jolly.  O, no;  I  don't  mean  that;  I  mean  it  will  be 
consoling." 

"  I'll  run  home  and  bring  Kaycander,"  said 
Jennie.  "  He  officiates  at  funerals,  and  is  very 
happy  on  such  occasions." 

"  He  ought  to  be  very  unhappy,  I  should  think," 
said  Fred,  looking  at  Julie,  and  blushing  slightly, 
for  Jennie  was  a  stranger  to  him. 

Jennie  laughed,  and  ran  off  on  her  errand,  while 
Fred  whispered  to  Julie,  "  I'll  be  the  grave-digger, 


THE   CHILD   AXD   THE   DEVIL.  51 

and  we'll  have  the  hole  in  my  back  yard,-  because, 
you  know,  she  might  see  us." 

Jennie  Hart  soon  came  running  back.  She 
found  Fred  and  Julie  waiting  for  her  with  the 
mouse. 

The  three  repaired  solemnly  to  Fred's  yard,  and 
seated  themselves  on  the  back  doorstep. 

"You  don't  think  it's  a  judgment  upon  me 
because  we  went  there  —  do  you?"  whispered 
Julie  to  Fred. 

"  Nonsense,  Julie  ! "  replied  Fred.  "  You  have 
had  that  mouse  ever  since  he  was  a  baby.  I  mean 
ever  since  you  was,  and  I  don't  suppose  such 
things  do  live  forever." 

"  He  was  not  then  taken  in  his  early  flower  ?  " 
Jennie  made  Kaycander  say,  with  a  very  stiff 
bow;  for  Kaycander  possessed  a  fine  straight 
spine,  and  was  in  truth  the  leg  to  an  old-fashioned 
bureau. 

Julie  smiled  through  her  tears,  and  thought 
Jennie  was  a  funny  girl  to  give  a  name  to  a  red 
bureau-leg. 

"I  hope  you  don't  object  to  a  minister  of 
color  ? "  said  Jennie,  pleased  to  see  Julie  smile, 
"  because  we  are  all  anti-slavery ;  and  so  is  pa." 

"The  dear  departed  was  not  exactly  white," 
said  Fred. 


62  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"  Sure  enough,"  said  Jennie,  "  but  he's  just  as 
good  for  all  that." 

"  He's  a  good  deal  better,"  murmured  Julie, 
affectionately.  The  little  dress  being  ready,  Kay- 
cander  made  another  stiff  bow,  while  Julie  bent 
her  head  solemnly,  and  Fred  held  his  handker- 
chief to  his  mouth,  instead  of  his  eyes ;  for  the 
ceremony  did  not  strike  him  as  an  occasion  for 
tears. 

"  I  say  unto  you,  Verily,"  began  Kaycander,  so 
exactly  like  a  real  minister,  that  Fred  pressed  his 
handkerchief  still  more  closely  to  his  lips,  "  that 
all  men  are  but  as  the  worms  of  the  earth  that 
perish ;  therefore  a  mouse  is  as  good  as  a  man ; 
for  verily  a  mouse  is  as  good  as  a  worm,  and  some 
better." 

"  Mr.  K.  Candor,"  interrupted  Fred,  "  is  a  jolly 
come-outer,  I  take  it." 

"  Hush ! "  whispered  Julie ;  and  Kaycander  con- 
tinued,— 

"  The  Lord  giveth  and  the  Lord  taketh  away. 
Blessed  be  the  Lord." 

"  Would  you  say  that,  if  you  was  me  ?  "  asked 
Julie. 

"  What  ?  "  said  Fred. 

"  That  about  blessed,  you  know.  I'm  afraid  it 
would  be  telling  a  lie — wouldn't  it?" 


THE    CHILD    AND    THE    DEVIL.  53 

"  O,  no ;  it  wouldn't,"  responded  Jennie,  en- 
thusiastically ;  "  because,  you  know,  he  giveth, 
too." 

"  O,  she  don't  know  how  much  he  gives,"  Fred 
informed  Jennie,  "  on  account  of  her" 

"  Blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord,"  whispered 
Julie.  "I  forgot." 

"Amen,"  echoed  Jennie.     "I  do  often." 

So  the  children  buried  the  mouse,  and  Jennie 
ran  home  with  her  little  minister,  while  Fred,  as 
he  escorted  Julie,  whispered  something  to  her  that 
had  been  on  his  mind  for  some  time. 

"If  you  wouldn't  call  pa's  and  ma's  opinion  a 
judgment,  Julie,  I'd  tell  you  something.  It's 
kind  of  good  and  kind  of  not.  I  thought  I'd  wait 
till  she'd  got  gone  before  I  said  anything  about 
it.  It's  this:  I'm  going  to  school  way  off  some- 
where, to  be  gone  four  years ;  and  then  I'm  only 
coming  back  for  a  little  while,  for  I'm  going  to 
college." 

"  Fred,  it  does  look  like  a  judgment,  or  a  special 
dispensation  of  divine  Providence,  or  something," 
said  Julie,  sadly. 

"  Of  course  it's  something,"  said  Fred. 

Julia  sighed. 

"  Are  you  sorry,  though  ?  "  returned  Fred,  with 


54  BEHIND    THE 

glee.  "  I  say,  Julie,  you're  ray  girl ;  now  remem- 
ber, and  don't  let  the  other  fellows  say  anything  to 
you  while  I'm  gone.  Good  by,  Julie ; "  and  Fred 
gave  Julie  a  quick,  impulsive  kiss,  and  ran  off, 
blushing  and  whistling. 


THE    PRINCESS    AND    THE    KNIGHT.  55 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    PKINCESS    AND    THE    KNIGHT. 

THE  princess  was  not  poor:  she  owned  a  por- 
tion of  the  dungeon  keep,  and  also  quite  a  large 
bag  of  gold  dollars  that  were  at  present  flying 
about  in  the  disguise  of  little  paper  birds,  and 
that,  when  the  princess  married,  or  came  of  age, 
she  could  call  in,  and  change  back  to  their  former 
shapes,  if  she  had  the  mind. 

Now,  the  "  presiding  elder,"  who  had  become  a 
sort  of  step-father  of  the  princess,  had  a  son,  and, 
being  a  tender-hearted  father,  he  saw  not  why  his 
son  should  be  denied  the  pleasure  of  catching  the 
birds.  The  cage  was  large  enough  for  all;  and, 
provided  the  princess's  mother  bird  would  only  let 
herself  be  caught,  the  young  birds  might  in  time 
be  brought  to  perch  on  the  hands  of  father  and 
son. 

The  younger  Mesher  was  a  fat  boy  of  about  the 
same  age  as  Fred  —  an  unfinished  impression  of 
the  father,  in  somewhat  softer  and  cheaper  ma- 
terial. He  was  given  to  bewailing  his  sins  at  the 


56  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

Sunday  school,  and  to  knocking  down  the  smaller 
boys  at  the  day  school.  He  was  very  greedy  at 
table,  and  covetous  generally. 

After  Fred  went  away,  the  dull  world  turned 
itself  over  yet  more  slowly  for  Julie,  day  by  day 
month  by  month,  and  year  by  year,  till  the  beauti- 
ful child  grew  into  the  still  more  beautiful  girl, 
Strange,  happy  dreams  crept  into  the  girl's  life, 
and  much  of  its  dulness  stole  out.  Julie's  "good 
one  "  was  now  to  sit  by  her  window  and  watch, 
and  Julie's  watching  was  the  instinct  of  a  soul  in 
search  of  its  destiny.  While  her  lingers  stitched 
away  at  her  sewing,  her  imagination  was  busy 
over  a  thousand  romantic  scenes.  Her  lovely  face 
would  sometimes  flush  with  a  bright  rosy  color 
and  she  would  glance  shyly  about  the  empty  room, 
half  suspecting  some  human  eye  upon  her.  At 
such  times  she  would  say  to  herself,  "Pshaw!  I 
believe  I  think  of  nothing  but  beaux  and  getting 
married.  I  even  think  of  elopements,  and  that's 
worse."  After  reflecting  thus,  Julie  always  fell 
back  into  her  dreams  straightway.  The  face  she 
pictured  was  a  lover's,  but  not  Fred's.  She 
thought  of  Fred  pleasantly,  but  as  a  child.  Even 
now  he  would  be  but  a  youth;  and  Julie's  ideal 
was  a  strong  man,  tall  and  handsome,  who  loved 
Julie  desperately,  thought  her  the  most  beautiful 


THE    PRINCESS    ANjD    THE    KNIGHT.  57 

of  women,  and  did  not  mind  telling  her  so  occa- 
sionally, and  taking  her  to  the  theatre. 

Julie  met  her  lover  in  a  great  many  imaginary 
ways.  Sometimes  he  appeared  at  the  church,  saw 
her,  and  waited  outside  till  she  should  pass  to  slip 
a  note  into  her  hand ;  or  it  would  be  night,  and 
some  unheard-of  errand  would  take  her  out  alone. 
The  "presiding  elder"  would  be  taken  dangerously 
ill,  and  Julie's  errand  would  be  for  the  doctor. 
Some  insolent  person  would  speak  to  her,  perhaps 
follow  her;  and  he,  the  lover,  would  come  to  the 
rescue.  Then  he  would  call  the  next  day  while  the 
step-mother  was  out,  and  would  say  fascinating 
things  to  her,  and  again  the  next  day,  till  at  last  he 
would  fall  at  her  feet,  and  entreat  her  to  fly  with  him. 
She  would  smile,  and  answer  sweetly,  but  sadly, 
"No,  Edward,  not  that.  I  love  you  devotedly; 
but  —  but  —  "  and  he  would  respond,  "  But  what, 
dearest?"  to  which  she  would  reply,  "Consider 
Mr.  Mesher  and  my  — "  and  he,  being  most 
charmingly  worldly,  would  laugh  with  a  careless, 
easy  grace,  and  respond,  "Mesher  be  hanged"  — 
a  sentence  which  secretly  would  not  sound  un- 
pleasant to  her,  although  she  would  answer  to  it 
with  a  severe,  but  still  charming  lecture. 

Julie  began,  too,  to  look  for  a  lover  among  the 
real  faces  she  met.  She  would  wonder  how  such 


58  BEHIND   THE   SCENES. 

and  such  a  young  man  would  seem  as  a  husband, 
supposing  he  should  fall  in  love  with  her.  But  she 
met  with  no  eyes  like  the  eyes  in  her  dream,  that 
burned  into  her  very  soul,  though  there  were  many 
eyes  that  looked,  and  were  charmed.  The  church 
and  the  meetings  also  came  to  have  a  new  attrac- 
tion for  her.  It  was  not  unpleasant  to  have  the 
men  and  women  exchange  covert  glances,  and 
whisper  as  she  passed ;  and  on  the  street,  too,  al- 
though it  startled  her  a  little,  it  was  still  pleasant 
to  have  the  passers-by  look  after  her  with  delight 
and  wonder,  as  if  she  had  been  some  rare  flower 
borne  through  the  city's  heart  in  the  dead  of  win- 
ter. She  would  remember  these  looks,  and  weave 
them  into  her  dreams  with  a  smile  somewhat  co- 
quettish. There  were  other  looks,  however,  that 
did  not  haunt  her  pleasantly  —  the  hypocritical  faces 
of  Mesher  and  his  son.  Julie  dreaded  meeting 
either  of  these  worthies  about  the  house ;  for  they 
never  failed,  by  some  means,  to  bring  a  blush  into 
her  face,  and  a  sickening  terror  into  her  heart. 
Her  dreams  received,  one  day,  a  sudden  shock. 
Her  step-mother  summoned  her.  In  the  presence 
of  that  lady  she  was  still  a  child.  She  had  the 
old  fear  that  forbade  her  to  speak  her  mind. 
The  two  Meshers  were  in  the  room  also.  Julie 
trembled,  and  tried  to  think  which  of  the  acts  she 


THE    PRINCESS    AND    THE    KNIGHT.  59 

had  lately  committed  could  be  laid  to  her  charge 
as  sinful.  She  half  feared  that  her  worldly 
thoughts  had  revealed  themselves  too  plainly  in 
her  face. 

"  Julie,"  said  Mrs.  Mesher,  briefly,  "  you  are  now 
a  woman,  and  ready  to  enter  into  the  sphere  of  a 
woman.  Simon  Mesher  offers  you  his  hand." 

Julie  turned  pale,  and  instinctively  drew  back. 

"  I  have  told  him,  as  it  was  my  duty,"  continued 
Mrs.  Mesher,  "  that  you  are  a  vain  woman,  one  who 
esteems  beauty  of  the  flesh  before  beauty  of  the 
spirit,  and  a  flippant  woman,  one  who  would 
not  respond  to  a  devout  Christian  mind." 

Julie  thought  of  her  worldly  lover,  and  was 
silent. 

"One  easily  led  into  worldly  ambitions,"  went 
on  Mrs.  Mesher,  still  more  sternly;  "but  he  is 
willing  to  overlook  these  qualities,  and  himself 
direct  you  in  the  path  of  duty;  prepare  your 
mind,  therefore,  for  the  life  that  awaits  you,  that 
you  may  become  worthy  of  the  privileges  and 
duties  of  a  wife."  The  step-mother's  words 
seemed  harshly  to  cut  the  poetry  of  Julie's  ideal 
like  a  sword.  She  dared  not  speak,  and  her  heart 
throbbed  painfully.  She  could  feel  the  small,  fat 
eyes  of  Ae  elder  Mesher  half  close  themselves, 
while  his  thick  lips  murmured, "  A  willing  bondage, 


60  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

my  daughter ;  yield  up  thy  body  and  thy  spirit  unto 
him  who  is  to  be  thy  master.  Take  her,  Simon ; 
take  her.  Deal  with  her  gently,  but  firmly.  Make 
of  her  a  faithful  wife  and  obedient  servant  unto 
thee  and  unto  the  Lord,  that  she  may  minister  unto 
thy  bodily  and  spiritual  needs,  and  unto  those  of 
thy  children,  and  be  a  silent  and  a  cheerful  servant; 
for  a  loud-talking  and  self-willed  woman  offendeth 
the  ears  of  the  Lord." 

The  elder  bent  his  face  close  to  that  of  the  girl, 
drew  her  to  him,  and  patted  her  head  with  his 
hand,  while  the  younger  Mesher  approached  with 
a  smile  so  repulsive  to  Julie,  that,  terribly  as  she 
stood  in  awe  of  her  step-mother,  she  sprang  away 
from  the  elder  and  ran  to  her  own  room,  threw 
herself  down  into  her  chair,  and,  tossed  by  con- 
flicting emotions,  wept.  While  the  cold  words  of 
her  step-mother  touched  her  ideal  love  like  steel, 
the  sensuality  of  the  two  Meshers  seemed  to  taint 
it  so,  that  for  days  Julie  thought  of  love  and  lovers 
with  something  like  a  shudder.  After  this  scene, 
she  knew  no  peace.  There  was  a  new  terror  in 
the  house  for  her.  She  stole  about  like  a  thief,  and 
lived  almost  entirely  in  her  own  room.  She  was 
so  young,  and  knew  so  little  of  the  world,  that 
these  three  beings  seemed  all-powerful  to  her.  She 
trembled  lest  she  should  be  drawn  into  the  sit- 


THE   PJJINCESS   AND    THE   KNIGHT.  61 

ting-room  some  day,  and  be  forced  to  marry  the 
detestable  Simon.  She  began  now  to  watch  for 
Fred's  return,  and  wonder  if  her  old  child-lover 
would  still  rescue  her,  as  he  used  to  promise,  from 
the  life  that  was  no  longer  simply  dull.  But  Fred 
did  not  come ;  at  least,  Julie  did  not  see  him  ;  and 
she  watched  and  waited  in  vain,  till,  little  by  little, 
an  old  fancy  of  her  childhood  took  possession  of  her, 
and  she  began  to  plan  how  she  might  escape  from 
her  prison  and  join  the  dancers  at  the  theatre.  To 
do  so,  she  must  leave  her  home,  and  the  "presid- 
ing" would  be  sure  to  find  her  and  bring  her  back. 
But  this  was  not  Julie's  strongest  motive  for  lin- 
gering. Dull  as  the  old  house  was,  it  was  sacred 
to  her  because  there  her  father  had  blessed  her  on 
his  death-bed.  When  Julie  looked  about  her  room, 
and  saw  her  one  little  chair,  her  bed,  the  patch- 
work quilt  she  had  made  with  her  own  hands,  the 
homely  scrolls  on  the  paper  her  hungry  eyes  had 
made  pictures  and  flowers  of  so  often,  and  the  two 
stunted  old  bushes  whose  tops  just  peeped  in  at  the 
window,  she  felt  a  tenderness  for  these  sharers  of 
her  solitude,  and  the  thought  of  leaving  them  was 
like  that  of  leaving  something  human.  Now,  while 
Julie  watched  and  waited,  Fred  had  returned,  a 
tall,  powerful  youth,  and  still  very  much  in  love 
with  her.  Fred  was  at  home,  and  it  so  hap- 


62  BEHIND  THE  SCENES. 

pcned  that  he  rang  the  door-bell  of  the  dungeon- 
keep  just  after  Julie  had  broken  away  from  the 
elder,  and  was  crying  in  her  room.  Fred  did  not 
observe  the  black  look  of  the  step-mother,  the 
shamefaced  countenance  of  the  younger  Simon, 
nor  the  hypocritical  smile  of  the  "  presiding  elder," 
who  seemed  still  to  rehearse  the  scene  he  had  com- 
menced with  Julie,  and  to  gloat  over  it.  There 
was  something  on  Fred's  mind  that  confused  the 
objects  about  him,  and  caused  him  to  blush  and 
turn  pale  alternately.  Mrs.  Mesher  motioned  him, 
coldly,  to  be  seated.  He  glanced  about  the  room : 
there  was  no  Julie  and  no  sunshine.  He  took  the 
proffered  chair,  painfully  conscious  of  the  three 
pairs  of  hostile  eyes  that  were  upon  him.  "  Pshaw ! " 
thought  Fred;  "what  a  baby  I  ami"  Then  he 
spoke  aloud,  and  his  voice  sounded  dry  and  husky ; 
not  at  all  as  he  had  planned  it  should,  in  the  seven 
or  eight  times  he  had  passed  and  repassed,  before 
entering  the  house. 

"  Is  Miss  Ward  at  home  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Mrs.  Mesher,  distinctly.  "  What 
do  you  want  of  her?" 

"To  see  her." 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Mesher. 

Fred  felt  the  color  mount  to  his  temple ;  he  had 
forgotten  to  introduce  himself.  "My  name  is 


THE    PRINCESS    AND    THE    KNIGHT.  Oti 

Frederic  Somerby,"  he  stammered.  "I  used  to 
know  Miss  Ward  —  that  is,  I  didn't  know  her,"  he 
added,  troubled  with  a  vague  fear  that,  even  at 
this  late  day,  the  disclosure  of  the  clandestine  ac- 
quaintance of  their  childhood  might  compromise 
Julie  in  some  way.  "I  used  to  see  her,  and,  in 
short,  I  called  to  say  —  to  ask  her  permission  and 
yours  to  become  acquainted  with  her.  A  fel- 
low," said  Fred,  blushing  still  deeper  because  he 
meant  to  use  the  language  of  a  man,  and  it  came 
more  natural  to  be  a  boy,  "don't  like  to  sneak 
round,  when  there's  no  reason  why  he  shouldn't 
speak  out.  I — " 

"  Who  is  your  father  ?  "  interrupted  Mrs.  Mesher, 
with  hard,  cold  emphasis. 

"My  father  is  John  Somerby,  and  by  profession 
a  writer,"  answered  Fred,  finding  this  unexpected 
catechism  very  embarrassing.  Mrs.  Mesher  knit- 
ted her  brow  yet  more  severely  as  she  said, — 

"  A  man  who  opposes  the  loud,  boastful  vanity 
of  his  reason  against  the  Bible.  Satan  has  too 
many  such  servants  in  this  day." 

"No,  he  has  not!"  said  Fred,  with  a  sudden 
flush.  "  There  isn't  a  better  nor  a  wiser  man  going 
than  my  father:  he  has  faith  in  God,  and  good, 
whether  in  the  Bible  or  out  of  it." 

"  You  follow  in  his  footsteps,"  said  Mrs.  Mesher, 
with  no  change  in  her  tone. 


64  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"  I  am  proud  to  say  I  do,  or  try  to,"  replied 
Fred,  with  warmth. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  "  continued  Mrs.  Mesher. 

"  Well,"  answered  Fred,  turning  crimson,  "  I'm 
about  seventeen,  but  I  hope  to  improve  in  that  re- 
spect every  day."  And  he  added,  to  himself,  "  My 
mother  does  know  that  I  am  out.  I  suppose  you'll 
ask  that  next." 

Mrs.  Mesher  fixed  her  eyes  upon  Fred  sternly. 
"Go  home,"  she  said,  "and  in  the  Bible  learn  the 
wisdom  of  humility.  Understand,  you  are  for- 
bidden to  enter  this  house*.  I  have  considered  my 
duty  and  the  Lord's  will  in  the  matter  of  my 
daughter's  future  well-being,  and  have  bestowed 
her  hand  on  a  young  man  who  is  a  servant  of 
the  Lord." 

Fred  felt  the  blood  leave  his  face  and  recede  to 
his  heart,  and  he  sat  motionless,  trying  to  decide 
whether  or  no  his  old  love  had  received  its  death- 
blow. 

"  Any  further  conversation  would  not  avail  you," 
continued  Mrs.  Mesher;  "therefore  I  shall  give  my 
attention  to  other  duties.  Good  morning." 

Fred  made  a  nervous  motion  with  his  pale  lips, 
as  if  to  detain  her ;  but  he  did  not  speak,  and  she 
passed  out  of  the  room. 

Simon  Mesher  chuckled.     The  sudden  dampen- 


THE    PRINCESS    AND    THE    KNIGHT.  65 

ing  of  Fred's  ardor  struck  him  as  amusing,  and  the 
elder  half  closed  his  eyes,  and,  mouthing  his  words 
with  a  relish,  as  was  his  wont,  he  repeated,  gently, 
"Understand,  young  man,  you  are  forbidden  this 
house.  This  bondwoman  of  the  Lord  gives  her 
young  charge  unto  no  man  but  my  son,  who  is  a 
servant  ot  the  Lord,  and  a  believer  in  his  word.  I 
need  not  tell  you  that  to  visit  this  abode  would  be 
to  violate  the  laws  of  propriety,  and  to  trespass  on 
the  sacred  rights  of  the  betrothed." 

Fred,  jealous  and  exasperated,  did  not  rise,  but 
muttered,  angrily,  "I'll  bet  Julie's  never  been 
asked  what  she'd  like  in  the  matter,  and  that's  why 
you're  in  such  a  plaguy  hurrry  to  get  rid  of 
me.  You  want  to  turn  every  other  fellow  off 
for  him" 

"  The  betrothal,"  murmured  the  elder,  sweetly, 
"has  this  day  been  consummated  between  the 
young  people,  and  the  maiden's  heart  goes  with 
her  hand.  Yes,  yes.  I  have  watched  the  signs. 
The  signs  of  a  modest  maiden's  heart,"  continued 
Mesher, — perhaps  inwardly  endeavoring  to  construe 
Julie's  very  decided  show  of  repugnance  for  his 
son  into  the  wayward  indications  of  love,  —  '^are 
only  revealed  to  those  who  look  upon  the  young 
girl  with  the  tender  watchfulness  of  a  parent." 

"  SJie  didn't  say,"  gasped  Fred,  suspicious  and  in- 
5 


66  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

dignant,  "  that  there  was  any  engagement.  I'll  be 
bound  it's  a  mean  invention  of  your  own." 

"  The  well-springs  of  my  heart,"  went  on  the 
elder,  with  a  forgiving  look  at  Fred,  "  have  been 
this  day  touched,  to  witness  the  tender  joys  of 
their  meeting.  O,  these  young  hearts!  O,  these 
little  fluttering  love  birds  !  They  have  melted 
mine  old  eyes  even  unto  tears,  and  the  dry  pastures 
of  my  heart  have  been  refreshed  and  made  green 
with  the  waters  thereof." 

Fred  felt  his  blood  rise.  "Don't  pretend  you 
don't  hear,"  he  cried.  "  I  said  she  didn't  give  any 
engagement  as  a  reason  why  I  shouldn't  come 
here,  and- 1  should  like  to  know  what  you  say 
to  that." 

Simon  Mesher  again  chuckled,  but  moved  un- 
easily towards  the  door. 

"  Peace,  my  son,  peace ! "  responded  the  elder, 
favoring  Fred  with  a  look  of  sorrowful  reproach. 
"  Let  us  not  part  with  angry  words  on  either  side. 
They  are  vain,  my  son,  vain.  Even  though  a 
stranger  to  me, — and  on  this  tender  occasion  I  shall 
be  forgiven  if  I  say  an  intruder;  yes,  an  intruder, 
—  my  bosom  is  filled  with  brotherly  love,  overflow- 
ing, as  I  mighu  say,  with  pure  love  for  you,  my 
poor  misguided  friend,  and  for  all  my  fellow-crea- 
tures, even  my  enemies.  I  pray  for  you,  my  son, 


THE   PBINCESS    AMD    THE    KNIGHT.  67 

that  your  heart  may  be  turned  from  vain  and  lust- 
ful thoughts.  Ah,  my  son,  think,  consider,  His  love 
is  more  precious  than  any  worldly  love ;  far  more 
precious,  far  more  priceless.  Turn  to  Him.  O,  my 
son,  if  I  might  feel  that  this  divine  interposition  of 
Providence,  this  chastening  touch  of  trouble,  would 
be  the  means  of  bringing  you  unto  Him  —  " 

"  Turn  to  him  yourself,"  muttered  Fred ;  "  or 
make  him  turn  and  forget  her.  I'd  like  to  see 
either  of  you  do  it." 

"  Your  sinful  words  fill  me  with  grief,"  said  the 
elder,  mildly.  "Intrude  no  longer  in -the  abode  of 
a  righteous  love." 

"  A  righteous  love !  You  lie ;  you  know  you  do," 
sneered  Fred,  controlling,  with  a  strong  effort,  the 
impulse  he  felt  to  shake  some  other  expression  into 
young  Mesher's  face  than  the  stupid  leer  it  wore. 

"He  who  calleth  his  brother  a  liar,"  said  the 
elder,  yet  more  mildly  —  "  But  I  forgive  you,  and 
send  you  forth  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger;  and 
I  say  to  you,  in  the  words  of  the  Lamb,  'Go  thy 
way,  and  sin  no  more;'  for  the  good  book  says, 
*  Thou  shalt  not  covet  thy  neighbor's  house,  thou 
shalt  not  covet  thy  neighbor's  wife,  nor  his  man- 
servant, nor  his  maid-servant,  nor  his  ox,  nor  his 
ass,  nor  anything  that  is  thy  neighbor's.'  O,  my 
son,"  continued  the  elder,  patting  Fred's  shoulder, 


68  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"let  not  thine  anger  rise  against  the  Lord's  words, 
but  soften  thy  hard  heart  unto  —  " 

"  You  can  keep  your  hand  off  my  shoulder," 
exclaimed  Fred,  seizing  the  elder's  wrist,  and  fling- 
ing the  hand  off. 

"  My  friend,"  said  Mesher,  a  streak  of  red  ap- 
pearing, for  an  instant,  over  the  natural  yellow  of 
his  flabby  face,  "  raise  not  your  hand  against  one, 
who,  in  meekness  and  concern  for  your  eternal 
welfare —  But  blush,  and  bow  your  head,  for  very 
shame ;  for,  behold,  thou  smitest  me  on  the  right 
cheek,  and  I  turn  unto  you  my  left." 

"  Here's  a  specimen  for  you ! "  cried  Fred,  with 
indignant  contempt.  "  By  George,  you  ought  to  be 
pickled  in  rum,  and  put  up  in  some  museum  among 
the  monstrosities." 

"  If  thine  enemy  smite  thee  on  the  one  cheek, 
turn  to  him  the  other  also,"  repeated  the  elder, 
squeezing  a  few  tears  out  of  his  closed  eyes.  "  O, 
unhappy  youth,  my  heart  bleeds  for  you ;  the  heart 
of  the  aged  servant  of  the  Lord,  whom  thou  hast 
this  day  reviled,  and  turned  against  with  the 
might  of  thy  youthful  hand,  melts  in  sorrow  for 
your  sin." 

Fred  sprang  up,  and  clenched  his  fist  angrily. 
"  If  I  could  strike,  or  shake  anything  out  of  you, 
but  a  parcel  of  lies,  darn  it,  you  old  fool,  I'd  —  " 


THE    PRINCESS    AND    THE    KNIGHT.  69 

"  My  son,  my  son,  this  is  blasphemy :  think,  my 
son,  blasphemy.  Verily  your  sinful  words  smite 
upon  my  soul  with  a  smart  that  is  like  unto  the 
smart  of  my  body." 

"  Verily,"  cried  Fred,  "  you've  spoken  the  truth 
for  once  in  your  life ;  for  you  haven't  soul  enough 
to  feel  any  contempt,  and  I  didn't  strike  you." 

"  My  son,"  said  the  elder,  "  perhaps  you  are  not 
aware  what  names  your  wicked  words  call  down 
upon  your  head  —  mocker !  scoffer !  Terrible 
words,  my  son  —  appalling  words !  O,  my  son, 
consider  them  well,  and  repent ! " 

Fred  made  an  angry  motion,  as  if  to  deal  the 
elder  a  blow,  but  commanded  himself.  "  Go  forth, 
Simon,  and  bring  the  police,"  said  the  elder,  step- 
ping back  and  turning  pale.  "I  feared  it  would 
come  to  this.  You  are  witness,  Simon^  that  I 
have  borne  with  meekness  insults  and  blows  in 
my  own  house.  Go  forth,  Simon  — go  forth." 

"Your  coward  son  went  forth  to  save  himself 
some  time  before  your  order,"  muttered  Fred ;  "  so 
that  game  won't  serve  you.  However,  your  aged 
heart  needn't  quake,  and  you  needn't  hide  behind 
the  door,  for  I  don't  intend  to  strike ;  but  I  mean 
to  find  out  the  truth,  and  all  your  noise  won't  pre- 
vent me. " 

Fred   strode  out  of  the   house  still  pale  with 


70  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

anger  and  indignation,  and  left  the  elder  just  in  the 
act  of  casting  up  his  eyes  preparatory  to  giving  a 
righteous  groan. 

He  walked  along  the  street  with  fierce  rapidity, 
his  hands  still  clenched,  and  his  brain  on  fire,  with 
plans  to  rescue  Julie,  and  thwart  the  fiendish 
schemes  of  the  elder ;  but  when  he  came  to  find 
himself  alone  in  his  own  room,  the  hands  un- 
clenched themselves,  and  Fred  lowered  his  head, 
and  cried  like  a  woman  or  a  child.  In  his  walk 
and  his  planning  he  had  but  undone  his  own 
hopes;  for,  after  all,  what  was  there  in  Mrs.  Mesh- 
er's  speech  to  give  him  reason  to  suppose  the  elder 
lied  in  the  matter  of  Julie's  engagement.  He  had 
been  angry  before,  and  had  not  felt  the  blow 
to  his  own  hopes  that  was  more  cruel  than  the 
elder's  exasperating  words.  Now  he  felt  it,  bowed 
beneath  it,  and  wept.  He  clung,  however,  to  one 
last  hope.  Julie  might  not  be  a  party  to  the  de- 
testable bargain.  He  would  see  her,  and  learn  the 
truth.  With  a  fevered  brain  he  again  stole  round 
to  the  rear  of  her  mother's  house,  and  stood  under 
Julie's  window.  He  remained  some  time  ere  he 
ventured  to  speak.  With  all  the  resolution  born 
of  his  trouble,  he  still  felt  timid  at  approaching  the 
shrine  of  his  idol ;  for  in  his  mind  Julie  had  not 
ripened  into  a  woman  merely,  but  rather  an  angel, 


THE    PRINCESS    AND    THE    KNIGHT.  71 

whom,  as  yet,  he  had  worshipped  only  at  a  dis- 
tance. He  glanced  up  at  her  window.  The  blinds 
were  closed.  His  heart  sank;  but  he  uttered  her 
name  as  loudly  as  he  dared.  There  was  no  an- 
swer. He  repeated  it,  and  still  there  was  silence, 
He  returned  home  heart-sick,  but  not  discouraged. 
He  came  again  and  again,  but  always  to  find  closed 
blinds,  and  no  response  to  his  call.  He  watched 
for  her  in  the  streets  with  no  better  results.  A 
suspicion  entered  his  mind,  and  gained  strength 
day  by  day,  that  Julie  was  kept  prisoner,  and  that 
his  unfortunate  visit  had  brought  about  this  extra 
severity.  This  thought,  and  his  helplessness  in  the 
matter,  drove  him  desperate.  He  had  kept  strict 
watch  over  the  house  for  a  month  or  more,  when 
he  observed,  at  times,  a  little  figure,  muffled  in 
shawls  and  closely  veiled,  steal  in  and  out  of  the 
passage-way  between  Mesher's  house  and  the  house 
adjoining.  The  figure  was  so  completely  disguised 
that  only  by  its  light,  quick  step  had  Fred  judged 
its  youth.  It  might  be  his  imagination ;  but  he 
fancied  he  could  trace  in  its  walk  some  resem- 
blance to  the  child  he  had  loved  long  since.  He 
resolved  to  observe  more  closely,  and  placed  him- 
self one  day  near  the  arch-way.  Whatever  its 
mission,  the  figure  seldom  remained  long  about  it, 
and  Fred  had  not  long  to  wait.  He  took  good 


* 

72  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

care  not  to  make  his  purpose  apparent ;  but  the 
figure  was  evidently  on  the  alert,  for  Fred  had 
taken  but  a  few  steps  in  the  same  direction  when 
it  quickened  its  movements.  Fred  accelerated  his 
pace  also,  and  the  figure,  alarmed,  commenced  run- 
ning. Fred,  ashamed,  desisted.  Still  it  was  not 
in  his  nature  to  abandon  an  undertaking  he  had 
set  his  mind  upon.  So  he  gave  himself  another 
chance  by  cutting  through  a  cross  street,  and 
rounding  a  certain  block  of  houses.  This  placed 
him  in  advance,  and  he  stood  waiting  till  the  figure 
should  come  up  with  him.  That  being  was  evi- 
dently still  suspicious,  as  it  paused  every  now  and 
then,  and  gave  frightened  glances  about,  and  Fred 
felt  as  little  respectable  as  he  appeared.  Still  he 
watched  until  the  figure  reached  its  destination, 
which  was  but  a  few  paces  from  where  Fred  had 
taken  his  station.  It  entered  the-stage  door  of  the 
theatre.  He  turned  away  more  disappointed  than 
he  could  have  believed  possible.  "  What  a  fool  I 
was ! "  he  muttered.  "  It  is  some  actress  or  ballet 
girl."  Still  Fred  did  not  banish  this  figure  from 
his  mind. 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  LADDER.       73 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AT   THE   FOOT   OF   THE   LADDER. 

"  WANTED,  twenty  ladies  for  the  new  spectacle. 
Inquire  at  stage  entrance,  Union  Theatre." 

Mrs.  Hart  read  these  words  aloud,  though  she 
did  not  intend  them  for  her  daughter's  ear.  It 
was  her  habit  to  read  whatever  she  read  to  her- 
self aloud,  as  if  her  mind  was  a  little  hard  of  hear- 
ing, and  the  thing  had  to  make  some  noise  to  be 
let  in.  The  words  dropped  like  a  spark  into 
Gail's  mind,  and  set  fire  to  some  very  inflammable 
material  there.  She  had  made  efforts  to  get  on 
the  stage,  but  in  secret.  She  instinctively  shrank 
from  imparting  even  to  those  dear  to  her  these 
attempts,  as  yet  fruitless,  to  win  the  thing  she 
loved. 

"  I  believe  I  will  try  it,"  she  said,  half  to  herself. 
"  Who  knows  what  may  come  of  it  ?  " 

"What!  become  a  play-actress?"  ejaculated 
Mrs.  Hart,  with  a  mixture  of  curiosity  and  aston- 
ishment. 

"  Not  so  bad  as  that,"  replied  Gail,  cynically,  as 


74  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

certain  heart-sickening  visions  of  crushed  hopes, 
closed  stage  doors,  and  managers  hard  to  see,  and 
harder  to  make  see,  appeared  before  her  mind. 
"  An  extra  lady,"  she  explained,  "is  only  some  one 
to  stand  on  the  stage,  and  help  make  up  the 
picture." 

"  Well,  at  the  same  time,  an  extra  lady  is  some- 
thing more  than  a  common  lady,"  said  her  mother, 
encouragingly.  "  I  declare,  it  is  over  hei*e  to  the 
Union  Theatre,"  she  went  on,  after  a  few  min- 
utes, reverting  to  the  paper  with  fresh  interest. 
"I  knew  of  some  one  that  used  to  act  upon  that 
staging;  it's  Mrs.  Gray's  daughter  Lizzie  and  Mrs. 
Barrows.  Mrs.  Gray  herself  took  in  their  play 
dresses  to  iron." 

At  another  time  Gail  would  have  smiled  at  this 
innocent  coupling  of  the  star's  name  with  that  of 
a  poor  ballet  girl's.  But  at  present  she  was  too 
nervous  at  the  thought  of  approaching  the  dread 
shrine,  even  with  so  humble  a  petition.  She  rose 
somewhat  hurriedly,  lest  her  resolution  should  fail, 
and  hastened  to  her  own  room.  With  unsteady 
fingers  she  dressed  in  her  most  theatrical  style, 
feeling  that  her  chance  was  bettered  by  seeming 
to  have  been  on  the  stage,  or  at  least  to  be  up  to 
it.  Before  leaving  the  house,  she  drew  a  veil  over 
her  face  in  true  actress  fashion. 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  LADDER.       75 

Poor  Gail !  it  was  something  of  a  descent  from 
her  ambitious  dreams  to  go  on  as  a  mere  supernu- 
merary. 

Those  in  her  little  circle  of  friends  who  had  seen 
her  act  had  given  her  to  understand  she  could  take 
rank  with  the  first.  But  Gail  was  desperate,  de- 
termined, and  still  thoroughly  in  love  with  the 
idea  of  becoming  an  actress.  The  theatre  had 
even  become  sanctified  to  her  by  her  childish  wor- 
ship of  it.  All  its  trickeries,  painted  faces,  and 
half-clothed  dancers  had  been  an  enchanted  world 
to  her ;  for  these  things  had  stepped  into  the  heart 
of  the  child  reverentially  as  on  sacred  ground,  and 
bowed  to  its  pure  instincts.  She  hastened  on  her 
way  to  the  theatre,  at  first  with  an  impulse  to 
plunge  blindly  through  what  was  a  disagreeable 
necessity ;  but  as  the  fresh  air  and  exercise  braced 
her,  this  shrinking  gave  place  to  a  feeling  of  inter- 
est in  what  she  had  undertaken,  and  a  sense  of 
delight  in  her  own  independence.  In  truth,  when 
the  mood  took  her,  Gail  had  mental  muscle  enough 
to  like  to  feel  herself  standing  alone  without  lean- 
ing too  much  on  the  opinions  of  society.  She 
threw  from  her  face  the  veil  she  had  drawn  over  it. 
She  thought,  almost  gayly,  "  I  will  take  the  expe- 
rience to  mind  rather  than  to  heart,  and  by  watch- 
ing and  study  I  shall  not  be  the  less  of  an  actress 
for  my  poor  position." 


76  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

When  she  reached  the  theatre,  she  stopped  for  a 
moment  outside  the  old  door  that  had  so  often 
filled  her  with  awe,  and  wondered  idly,  if  with  the 
little  stream  of  daylight  that  should  enter  with  her, 
the  old  enchantment  would  vanish  like  elves  at 
cock-crow. 

Though  Gail  was  now  a  woman,  time  and  doubt 
had  not  quite,  like  the  wicked  fairy's  wand,  touched 
her  enchanted  beings  into  mere  earthly  forms. 
She  had  still  for  them  the  old  mixture  of  ideality 
and  idolatry. 

The  heavy  stage  door  creaked  harshly  on  its 
rusty  hinges  as  Gail  pushed  it  open,  as  if  it,  too, 
grudged  her  entrance.  All  she  could  discern  in 
the  darkness  within  was  the  appalling  announce- 
ment, "Positively  no  admittance,"  written  above 
her  head.  To  her  nostrils  came  a  strong  odor  of 
gas,  paint,  and  dust,  that  she  had  sometimes  per- 
ceived on  the  rising  of  the  curtain,  and  that  had  a 
charm  for  her,  so  was  it  associated  with  the  place. 
To-day,  nervous  and  full  of  dreams  for  the  future, 
this  odor  seemed  to  mix  itself  subtilely  with  the 
breath  of  human  aspirations,  somewhat  feverish. 
A  feeble  ray  of  daylight  filtered  through  a  dirty 
window  above,  and  mingled  with  the  flame  of  a 
single  gas-burner,  making  it  shrink  within  itself 
feebly. 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  LADDER.       77 

After  her  eyes  had  become  accustomed  to  the 
darkness,  Gail  found  herself  surrounded  by  huge 
piles  of  scenes,  leaning  against  the  brick  walls  of 
the  building.  She  was  about  to  penetrate  further, 
when  a  curious  little  figure  emerged  from  the 
gloom,  and  presented  to  her  sight  a  dry,  serious 
face,  and  a  rusty  suit  of  copper  color,  the  prevail- 
ing tint  of  the  canvases  about  —  a  creature  that 
seemed  to  her  to  be  soul  and  body ;  a  sort  of 
parasitic  growth  of  the  material  portion  of  the 
place.  Somewhat  timidly,  it  must  be  confessed,  in 
spite  of  her  new-born  courage,  Gail  inquired  for  Mr. 
Lennox,  the  lessee  and  manager.  The  specimen 
showed  no  signs  of  having  heard  till  he  had  slowly 
and  fondly  deposited,  one  by  one,  an  armful  of 
masks,  and  gazed  contemplatively  into  space  for  a 
moment. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Lennox,"  he  said,  musingly.  "  Mr.  Len- 
nox is  at  present  at  his  theatre  west."  The  words 
theatre  and  Lennox  were  dwelt  upon  with  a  quiet 
but  deep  satisfaction.  As  Gail  waited,  doubtful 
how  to  proceed,  there  appeared  a  genius,  known 
as  super,  coarse  in  feature,  and  threadbai'e  in  dress. 

"  No,  sir,"  cried  this  youth,  with  defiant  famil- 
iarity ;  "  Tom's  not  west  neither.  Tom's  here ; 
saw  him  not  two  minutes  ago;  talked  with  him 
myself." 


78  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

His  words,  like  those  of  the  old  man,  were 
spoken  with  a  relish,  although  his  manner  was  quite 
different.  He  only  wished  it  understood  that  he 
and  the  manager  were  on  intimate  terms,  while  the 
little  man  seemed  to  turn  the  name  over  carefully, 
as  if  it  had  been  some  rare  and  precious  stone; 
and  as  he  lowered  his  voice  to  whisper  to  her  con- 
fidentially, Gail  felt  he  could  not  allow  his  claims 
of  ownership  to  be  disputed. 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  he  may  be  here,  and  he 
may  not.  Mr.  Lennox  is  a  very  peculiar  man  —  a 
very  peculiar  man.  You  find  him  sometimes  in 
one  place,  and  sometimes  in  another."  The  little 
man  here  took  a  step  back,  the  better  to  observe 
the  effect  of  this  evidence  of  eccentricity  upon 
Gail,  and  continued,  "He  said  to  me,  —  in  the 
strictest  confidence,  mind  you,  —  'My  God,  James, 
I  wish  they'd  let  me  alone.'  He  has  had,"  whis- 
pered James  impressively,  "fifty  applications  for 
engagements  in  a  single  week ;  fifty  —  applications 
—  in  —  a  —  single  —  week." 

Gail  lost  courage  a  little,  although  she  only  half 
believed  the  assertion.  She  replied  coldly,  "I 
came  in  answer  to  the  advertisement  for  ladies." 

James  eyed  her  reproachfully,  and  in  the  manner 
of  his  answer  indicated  that  he  considered  even  so 
humble  a  connection  with  the  theatre  as  an  honor. 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  LADDEE.       79 

"  Ah,  indeed  ;  then  I  think  Mr.  Lennox  will  con- 
fer with -you,"  he  intimated.  "Or  perhaps  you  had 
better  see  Jerry  Sands."  Gail  followed  her  con- 
ductor behind  the  scenes  into  the  presence  of  Jerry 
—  a  seedy-looking  man,  but  genteel,  one  of  whose 
.eyes  had  the  appearance  of  having  sported  a  glass 
till  its  impression  had  become  permanent. 

"  Bailey  ?  "  murmured  Jerry,  without  raising  his 
face  from  the  table  before  which  he  sat. 

"  The  young  lady  wishes  to  engage  in  the  new 
piece,"  replied  James. 

"  Father,  husband,  or  big  brother  know  you're 
here  ? "  inquired  Jerry,  still  with  his  eyes  on  the 
table,  but  seeming  to  feel  that  Gail  was  new  to  the 
stage;  "because,  you  know,  we  don't  want  any  of 
that  sort  of  thing  —  girls  engaging  with  us,  and 
then  leaving  on  account  of  a  row  with  the  family." 

Gail  assured  him  that  he  had  nothing  of  the 
kind  to  apprehend  in  her  case. 

"  Very  well,  then ;  we'll  give  you  one  dollar  a 
night,  and  find  your  dress.  Will  that  suit?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Very  well ;  give  your  address." 

Gail  complied. 

This  business  over,  and  the  rehearsal  not  yet 
come  on,  Gail  found  for  herself  a  seat  on  the  stairs 
ascending  to  the  scene-painter's  gallery,  where  she 


80  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

might  watch  without  being  conspicuous.  She  felt, 
however,  little  heart  for  gratifying  her  curiosity. 
Something  in  the  very  atmosphere  of  the  place 
seemed  to  discourage  her.  She  was  disappointed. 
The  first  step  in  the  experiment  she  had  resolved  to 
try  seemed  rather  to  throw  her  farther  off  from  her 
real  object  than  to  draw  her  nearer  to  it.  She 
seemed  to  feel,  in  the  prevailing  spirit  about  her, 
only  invisible  barriers.  Educated  to  an  imaginary 
world,  this  taste  of  a  harder  and  colder  re'ality 
gave  her  sensitive  nature  pain.  The  tears  in  her 
eyes  blurred  the  desolate  stage  before  her,  and 
perhaps  the  cloud  over  her  spirits  made  dim  the 
mind's  sight  also;  for  the  beings  whom  she  had 
worshipped  appeared  to  her  as  very  weak  and 
vain  mortals  indeed,  aud  she  shrank  from  the  little 
slurs  and  the  petty  airs  of  superiority  she  fancied  in 
them.  She  watched  the  scene  and  the  people 
about  her,  in  truth,  with  a  mind  that  was  proud, 
sick,  hungry,  and  jealous  —  that  aspired  to  wor- 
thier things,  and  was  ashamed  of  its  own  weak- 
ness. From  the  cold,  gloomy  stage  came  the 
voices  of  the  rehearsers,  mumbling  over  their  parts 
inaudibly,  as  if  they  were  feeling  about  in  the  dark 
for  them  —  as  perhaps  they  were,  mentally.  Only 
the  cues  were  given  with  sufficient  distinctness  to 
be  heard.  The  actors  and  actresses  wandered 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  LADDER.       81 

about  with  a  sort  of  idle  restlessness,  an  absorbed 
self-conscitfusness,  pei-vaded  by  a  certain  charm  of 
their  stage  life,  that,  even  when  they  expressed 
themselves  discontented  with  their  profession,  —  as 
they  not  unfrequently  did,  —  was  far  more  impres- 
sive than  their  words. 

Gail  observed  a  certain  figure  pacing  the  stage 
behind  the  scenes  —  a  woman,  tall,  thin,  and  too 
quick  and  sudden  in  her  motions  for  grace.  She  was 
a  contrast,  both  in  face  and  manner,  to  those  about 
her.  She  was  not  an  actress.  Any  part  would  have 
expressed  her  rather  than  she  it.  Behind  her  pale 
face  and  sharp  gray  eyes  seemed  to  burn  an  un- 
steady light  that  at  times  flushed  the  face,  and  at 
times  left  it  to  a  dull  pallor.  Her  thin  lips  often 
moved  nervously  when  she  was  not  speaking.  This 
woman's  character  reflected  Gail's  mood ;  and  per- 
haps through  this  odd  sympathy  she  was  moved  to 
address  the  stranger.  At  all  events,  she  paused 
suddenly  before  Gail,  and  said,  sharply,  — 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  thinking,"  answered  Gail ;  "  I  am  get- 
ting ready  to  think." 

"  Do  you  know,  now,"  said  the  lady,  "I  thought 
you  were  a  genius  ?     I  said  so  to  myself.     I  am  a 
genius  also,  only  I  am  unappreciated.     I  do  utility 
business.     I  am  Isabel  Lester." 
6 


82  BEHIND   THE    SCENES. 

"My  name  is  Abigail  Hart."  And  Gail  would 
have  added,  "  I,  too,  fancy  myself  a  genius."  But 
this  species  of  frankness  did  not  come  natural  to 
her. 

"Just  hear  them  talk,"  whispered  Isabel,  alter 
making  a  short  pause,  that  seemed  to  have  £  jerk 
in  it  as  sharp  and  sudden  as  her  motions.  "They 
amuse  me."  Isabel  indicated,  by  a  slight  nod,  two 
actors  who  had  sauntered  near  the  spot. 

"  Hadley  says  he's  sick  of  the  whole  business. 
Guess  he'll  throw  up.  And  Dean  isn't  much  bet- 
ter pleased  —  been  on  the  shelf  ever  since  they 
opened,"  said  actor  number  one. 

"  I  don't  see  what  the  fellows  want  to  grumble 
for," responded  actor  number  two.  "I  should  con- 
sider myself  precious  lucky  if  I  had  their  chance  — 
all  pay  and  no  work." 

"No  play  either,  Mr.  Andrews,"  put  in  Isabel. 

"  Why  don't  they  go  into  something  else,  if  they 
don't  like  the  profession  ?  "  retorted  Mr.  Andrews. 

"  That's  a  mystery,"  said  Isabel,  biting  her  lips 
with  an  odd  sort  of  impatience.  "We  actors  and 
actresses  are  always  saying  we  don't  like  the  pro- 
fession, and  yet  we  cling  to  it  as  if  we  did.  I 
know  I'm  perfectly  lifeless  outside  the  theatre; 
and  I  guess  others  are,  too,  if  they'd  own  up." 

In  spite  of  Isabel's  sharp  manner  of  speaking, 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  LADDER.       83 

and  alert  way  of  glancing  up  when  others  spoke, 
as  if  her  wit  was  ready  to  pounce  upon  the  slight- 
est weakness,  Gail  felt  she  possessed  a  certain  vein 
of  tenderness,  and  that  her  wit  was  more  like  a 
sharp  surgical  instrument  than  a  sword,  —  it  would 
rather  cure  than  kill.  At  this  juncture,  the  ballet 
mistress  appeared.  Gail  recognized  in  her  Mrs. 
Sands.  She  had  not  become  a  whit  less  noisy  or 
slatternly  with  years. 

"Are  you  engaged  for  the  new  piece?"  she 
cried  to  Gail. 

"I  believe  so." 

"  Very  good,  my  dear ;  and  I  honly  wish  I  'ad  a 
dozen  more  like  you." 

"  Take  me,  Meary  ? "  said  the  voice  of  a  gentle- 
man behind  her :  "  won't  I  do  for  a  young  lady  ? 
I'll  dance  good,  if  you'll  be  my  partner."  The 
new-comer  was  fashionably  dressed,  large  and 
handsome,  with  a  face  somewhat  flushed,  and  a 
look  somewhat  dissipated.  He  had  in  his  manner 
too  much  of  the  world  outside,  and  too  little  of  the 
ideal  world,  for  an  actor.  His  presence  created  a 
little  breeze  of  pleasure  and  coquetry  among  the 
ladies ;  and  Gail  judged  him  to  be  Mr.  Lennox. 

"I  wish  to  God  you  would  dance!"  cried  Mrs. 
Sands ;  "  you'd  keep  the  gals  in  order." 

"  I  guess   they'd   have   to  keep   me   in   order," 


84  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

laughed  the  manager,  embracing  Mrs.  Sands,  and 
glancing  at  Gail. 

a  For  shame,"  answered  the  ballet  mistress ;  "  and 
you  a  married  man,  too." 

"Well,  now,  why  not,  Mrs.  Sands?"  said  the 
manager.  "Is  the  world  worth  being  good  for?" 

"  Is  it  worth  being  bad  for  ?  "  queried  Isabel. 

"My  dear,"  said  Lennox,  "I  never  know  what 
you're  driving  at  when  you  speak." 

"  Perhaps  you're  not  used  to  hearing  the  truth. 
I  happen  to  mean,  just  now,  that  it  don't  pay  to  be 
bad,  any  more  than  it  pays  to  be  good ;  and  in 
truth  it  doesn't  pay  to  be  at  all." 

Mr.  Lennox  laughed  in  an  easy,  off-hand  man- 
ner, and  made  his  exit. 

"Isabel,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Sands,  seriously, 
"  I  wouldn't  speak  so  to  Mr.  Lennox.  Mind  you, 
I  know  you  don't  mean  any  'arm,  but  I'd  'ave 
respect  for  a  man  that's  older  than  me,  and  that 
has  two  theatres,  one  'ere  and  one  west,  and  the 
hopera  besides."  The  ladies  here  began  to  com- 
plain that  the  rehearsal  was  late. 

"You  can't  blame  me,  I'm  sure,"  cried  Mrs. 
Sands,  loudly,  but  not  offensively.  "  I've  been  'ere 
since  nine  o'clock,  and,  mind  you,  at  the  same  time 
I  don't  blame  you.  Our  own  ladies  is  always  in 
time,  and  it's  not  Tom  Lennox's  fault  either,  nor 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  LADDER.       85 

any  that  manages  under  him.  There  isn't  a  better 
manager  anywhere  than  Tom  Lennox,  and  I  don't 
care  who  'ears  me  say  so.  I've  played  business 
under  Father  Symonds,  too,  and  in  the  old  country 
'icks  of  the  Surrey.  But,  mind  you,  I'd  rather  be 
ballet  mistress  under  Lennox  than  the  whole  lot 
of  'em." 

"  Why,  yes,  one's  enough,"  said  Isabel. 

The  other  ladies,  catching  Mrs.  Sands's  spirit, 
began  of  one  accord  to  praise  the  handsome  man- 
ager; but  notwithstanding  this,  Mrs.  Sands  so 
relished  her  position  as  champion,  that  she  must 
continue  in  the  same  strain.  "  And  my  advice  to 
you,  one  and  all,  is,  Mr.  Lennox  does  the  fair  thing 
by  you,  and  so  I  tell  you  now." 

"  I'll  take  your  advice  for  one,"  said  Isabel.  "  It 
isn't  grammar  or  sense  we  should  prize;  it's  the 
good  heart.  Don't  you  think  so,  Mrs.  S.  ?  " 

"  Has  you  say,  Mrs.  'Hel,  it's  the  'art  we  should 
prize,"  said  Mrs.  Sands,  whose  good-natured,  care- 
less way  of  listening  took  none  of  the  sarcasm  of 
the  speech,  and  who  was  quite  unconscious  of 
having  given  her  sentence  a  more  applicable  mean- 
ing by  knocking  the  h  from  heart. 

"  Damn  you,  darlings,  get  on  with  your  rehear- 
sal," cried  Blowper,  the  stage  manager.  "  We 
haven't  got  all  day  to  wait." 


86  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

Mrs.  Sands,  who  received  in  this  order  the  first 
intimation  that  the  rehearsal  of  the  dance  might 
proceed,  anxiously  hurried  the  ladies  upon  the 
stage,  and  began  placing  them  in  couples,  implor- 
ing each  in  turn  to  do  her  best. 

Gail,  who  had  become  weary  and  nervous  in  her 
position  as  spectator,  began  to  feel  renewed  inter- 
est. Here  was  something  to  do,  and  already  her 
mind  was  alert  to  do  it  artistically.  But  the  dance, 
under  Mrs.  Sands's  management,  was  anything  but 
encouraging.  Her  character,  like  her  dress  and 
manners,  might  be  called  slipshod.  Authority  was 
only  pinned  into  her  nature,  as  her  dress  was 
pinned  on  her.  Any  tread,  rough  or  gentle, 
trailed  it  down  into  the  dust. 

"Now,  then,  gals,  take  your  places  as  you  'ad 
them  yesterday,"  she  ordered,  with  a  voice  suffi- 
ciently loud,  but  in  which  there  was  no  real  deter- 
mination, "  and  when  I  call  one,  two,  three,  and 
you  'ear  the  music,  'tee  dum,  tee  dum  tee  dee,  tee 
darj  all  start  on  tee  dnr.  Now,  then  —  one,  two, 
three;  start.  My  God,  you're  late,  be'ind  there; 
and,  you  in  front,  where's  your  'ands  round? 
Your  places,  your  places,  quick.  —  [To  the  violin.] 
Once  more,  Sig.  Bruno,  if  you  please.  One,  two, 
three  —  hintirely  hout? 

"  Of  course  it  all  goes  wrong,  Mrs.  Sands,"  said 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  LADDER.        87 

an  offended  dancer.  "  What  can  you  expect  ? 
There's  a  set  of  people  here  who  don't  know  the 
first  thing  about  dancing." 

"The  trouble  is,"  said  another,  "we  are  not 
rightly  placed.  I'm  first  bally,  and  Smith  is  sec- 
ond. So,  of  course,  we  ought  to  lead." 

"To  be  sure,"  cried  Mrs.  Sands.  "Who  says 
you  shan't?  And  now,  mind  you  —  " 

"Mr.  Blowper  told  me  to  stand  here,"  inter- 
rupted the  offending  party.  "Of  course,  it  is 
nothing  to  me.  All  is  —  " 

"Well,  my  dear,  you  can  stand  be'ind;  you're 
seen  j  ust  as  much  there  as  anywhere ;  and  mind 
you,  gals,  you're  all  leaders  in  this  dance,  and  at  the 
same  time  Miss  Smith  and  Miss  Burns  takes  the 
front;  and  now,  again.  One,  two,  three."  Still 
the  refractory  dancers  refused  to  start  on  tee  dar, 
but  not  only  consented  to  start  a  few  moments 
later,  but  to  continue  dancing  out  of  time*  in  spite 
of  Mrs.  Sands's  vociferous  cry  of,  "  Hout  with  the 
music,  my  dears.  Fall  into  your  'ands  round, 
quick ;  not  you  be'ind  —  you  in  front,  there."  Nor 
was  a  clearer  perception  of  the  dance  diffused 
among  them  when  Mr.  Blowper  repeated  the 
order  a  little  too  late  for  its  proper  execution,  and 

shouted,  "For  a  set  of  d d  handsome  gals, 

you've  got  about  as  little  brains  as  I  ever  saw." 


88  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

The  dancers  were  only  stayed  by  symptoms  of 
an  open  warfare  between  "  our  own  ladies "  and 
the  extra  ladies. 

There  had  existed  ill  will  in  the  hearts  of  both 
parties,  expressed  by  "  our  own "  in  under-tone 
sarcasms  and  innuendoes,  and  by  the  extra  in  a 
sort  of  impenetrable  obliviousness,  that  was  in  its 
character  exasperating. 

"  We  were  all  right  enough,"  cried  the  voices 
of  several,  endeavoring  to  make  themselves  heard 
above  the  voices  of  several  others;  "if  it  hadn't 
been  for  those  two  girls  from  the  Ash  Street  —  " 

"  If  you  mean  me  and  Henny,"  interrupted  a 
solid  voice  from  the  crowd,  "you'd  better  hold 
your  tongue.  We  know  as  much  as  you  do." 

"  My  God,  I  like  their  impudence,"  muttered  a 
partisan  of  eccentric  taste. 

"'Ush,  'ush,  'ush!"  cried  Mrs.  Sands;  "and  go 
back  to*  the  beginning,  every  one  of  you." 

This  command  not  having  the  desired  effect, 
Mrs.  Sands  resorted  to  more  soothing  measures, 
and  whispered  to  each  dancer,  in  turn,  as  she  re- 
placed her,  "Now,  mind  you,  I  depend  entirely 
upon  you;  you've  practised  for  a  dance,  and  we 
can't  expect  those  as  'asn't  to  do  as  well  as  those 
as  'as;"  but  with  all  her  efforts,  the  rebellion 
was  only  turned  back  into  its  former  mode  of 
expression. 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THIS  LADDER.       89 

"  Now,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Sands,  stopping  to  take 
breath  and  survey  the  rehearsers,  "  we  have  height 
on  one  side,  and  height  on  the  other,"  —  which  was 
quite  true.  "So  we  can  start  fair  again  —  the  'ole 
sixteen.  Now,  then,  again.  One,  two,  three ; " 
and  the  whole  sixteen  started  fair.  But  as  each  of 
"  our  own  ladies "  had  an  independent  notion  of 
the  figures,  and  the  extra  ladies  had  no  notions 
whatever,  but,  to  use  an  expression  of  "  our  own," 
stood  and  "gawped,"  they  proceeded  otherwise. 
But  still  Mrs.  Sands,  beating  time  emphatically, 
shouted  the  figures  —  "'Ands  around,  you  four 
front  couples,  and  circle  at  the  back.  Now,  then, 
the  reverse.  Form  a  line.  That  brings  you  down 
in  front,  —  you're  not  in  a  line,  my  dears,  —  and 
then  your  'butterfly'  and  the  'bayaderes'  are  on. 
Too  late  with  your  'butterfly.'  For  God's  sake, 
your  tableau,  quick ! "  shouted  Mrs.  Sands,  desper- 
ately; whilst  the  stage  manager  swore  and  ges- 
ticulated in  a  most  unintelligible  manner;  and 
two  ladies,  whom  Gail  had  previously  seen,  in 
soiled  slippers  and  short  dresses,  solemnly,  and 
with  distressed  faces,  kicking  at  each  other  from 
opposite  wings,  bounded  on  to  the  stage,  and  began 
a  most  alarming  succession  of  rapid  movements, 
regardless  of  spots  already  occupied  by  preoccu- 
pied artists,  who  ought  to  have  been,  but  who  were 
not,  out  of  the  way. 


90  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

A  number  of  small  collisions,  of  course,  took 
place. 

"  My  God !  give  us  the  stage ! "  cried  the  baya- 
deres, breathlessly,  but  without  pausing. 

The  dancers  scolded  each  other. 

Mrs.  Sands  shouted,  "  My  dears,  my  dears,  this 
will  never  do  at  night !  We  shall  be  ruined !  Now, 
then,  again ;  your  slow  movement,  quick  ! " 

This  unlooked-for  order  dissipated  what  little 
idea  of  the  dance  existed  among  the  dancers  ;  and 
Mrs.  Sands  was  fain  to  start  afresh. 

"  But  not  at  the  beginning ! "  she  cried.  "  Tour 
butterfly.  On  one  foot,  my  dears ! " 

The  butterfly  was  no  sooner  commenced,  how- 
ever, than  the  rehearsal  terminated  quite  unex- 
pectedly, on  account  of  the  solitary  violinist,  who 
had  furnished  the  music,  disappearing  under  the 
stage,  suddenly,  like  a  genius  of  some  sort.  In- 
deed, before  his  final  exit,  the  stout  Italian  leader 
had  been  waxing  cold  and  dismal ;  and  more  than 
once  Gail  had  fancied  she  heard,  about  his  vicinity, 
something  that  sounded  like  "  Sacramento — damn ! " 

Gail  returned  home  from  the  rehearsal  almost 
discouraged,  and  not  very  pleasantly  excited. 
There  was  little  to  hope  for  from  the  dance ;  and 
the  coarse,  disrespectful  familiarity  of  the  stage 
manager,  conflicted  painfully  with  her  sense  of  re- 


AT  THE  FOOT  OP  THE  LADDER.       91 

finement  and  dignity.  However,  it  was  too  late  to 
retract.  So  Gail  prepared  her  dress  and  her  mind 
for  the  coming  ordeal,  and  still  hoped  for  a  happier 
issue.  Two  or  three  more  similar  rehearsals  brought 
the  night  of  the  play. 

As  Gail  crossed  the  stage,  she  fancied  a  suppressed 
spirit  of  excitement  lui-ked  about  the  closed  dress- 
ing-room doors,  that  was  mocked  by  the  dismal  wail 
of  some  instrument  under  ground,  and  that  contrast- 
ed with  the  lonely  creaking  of  boots  and  slamming 
of  doors  by  the  few  early  arrivals  in  front.  The 
dressing-room,  she  found,  was  unpleasantly  close  and 
crowded,  and  her  welcome  anything  but  cordial. 

"  Well,  I'll  give  up !  How  ever  I'm  to  get  yoiT  a 
body  I  don't  know !  "  exclaimed  the  mistress  of  the 
wardrobe,  Mrs.  Howe.  "Body"  was  Mrs.  Howe's 
term  for  waist. 

"Who  sent  you  here?"  cried  one  of  the  ladies. 
"  If  it's  that  prompter,  you  ask  him  if  he'd  like  to 
have  us  dress  in  the  flies,  or  the  painter's  gallery. 
We'll  do  anything  to  oblige  him." 

Gail  was  not  moved  to  comply  with  this  request, 
but  stood  for  a  second  in  doubt  what  to  do  next, 
thinking  one  body,  under  the  circumstances,  was 
as  much  as  she  could  dispose  of.  "  You  come  here, 
and  don't  mind  her,"  said  Mrs.  Howe.  "You've 
as  good  a  right  to  the  plnce  ns  anybody."  Mrs. 


92  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

Howe  was  a  stout,  bustling  woman,  and  was  at 
present  engaged  in  sorting  over  a  large  bundle  of 
"  bodies  "  and  "  trunks"  —  an  operation  which  filled 
up  no  small  portion  of  the  already  over-crowded 
room.  Indeed,  three  little  human  bodies  might  be 
said  to  be  literally  shelved ;  for  they  peered  down 
from  a  nook  in  Mrs.  Sands's  dressing-place,  where 
they  were  stowed  away  until  such  time  as  they 
should  be  required.  Gail  afterwards  learned  to 
know  them  by  the  names  of  "the  little  Italian 
brother,"  "  Mrs.  Sands's  sissy,"  and  "  that  brat  Jerry 
picked  up."  The  brother  possessed  eyes  larger 
than  his  nose  or  mouth,  which  gave  him  a  melan- 
choly expression.  His  skin,  moreover,  on  coming 
to  dress  him,  was  found  to  be  made  so  many  shades 
darker  by  dirt  than  nature  or  Italy  intended,  that 
Mrs.  Howe  exclaimed,  "  Well !  was  ever  anything 
like  it?  —  for  that  dirty  wretch  of  a  Lumbini  to 
bring  this  child  up  here  in  his  every-day  skin!" 
She  proceeded  to  cover  the  difficulty  by  a  vigorous 
application  of  chalk,  and  then  to  array  him  in  a 
low  body,  in  which  he  looked  more  forlorn  than 
ever.  "  Sissy "  had  an  old  face,  pale  and  sharp, 
with  weak  eyes.  She  could  say  bright  and  imper- 
tinent things  with  equal  felicity,  and  "'ad  quite  a 
turn  for  learning,"  Mrs.  Sands  said.  Indeed,  she 
lost  no  time  in  soliciting  the  information  as  to  M  how 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  LADDER.        93 

old  Mrs.  Howe  might  be ;  what  made  her  nose  so 
red  ;  and  why  she  didn't  have  hair  on  the  top  of 
her  head."  Later  in  the  evening,  Mrs.  Sands  dis- 
covered these  three  children  asleep  behind  some 
properties  at  the  back  of  the  stage,  and  aroused 
them  in  a  very  sneezy,  snuffly  condition.  Sissy 
was  duly  scolded,  and  recommended,  by  her 
mother,  to  "  'eat  her  feet  before  going  hon." 

The  languid  dullness  of  the  rehearsals  had  given 
place,  in  the  dressing-room  at  least,  to  a  reactionary 
excess  of  spirits.  Gail  heard  related  many  lively 
reminiscences  of  other  theatres  and  engagements, 
and  learned  that,  at  other  theatres,  each  lady  pres- 
ent had -played  "business."  She  also  had  occasion 
to  note  a  peculiar  coincidence. 

Each  lady,  with  only  one  or  two  exceptions,  had 
just  entered  her  seventeenth  year.  Isabel  re- 
marked thereat,  "  That's  right,  girls :  I  like  to  see 
constancy  in  all  things.  I  say,  get  an  age,  one 
that  you  really  do  like,  and  stick  to  it." 

Mrs.  Sands,  who  had  dressed  herself  in  a  matter- 
of-fact  way,  with  neither  taste  nor  vanity,  and 
who  had  been  taking  her  part  in  the  conversation 
in  a  manner  by  no  means  less  lively  than  the  oth- 
ers, quite  unexpectedly  changed  her  tone.  "Gals, 
I'm  in  a  fit  of  the  blackest  blues ! "  she  exclaimed. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  you?"  inquired 


94  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

one  of  the  merriest  of  the  girls,  who  was  engaged 
in  establishing  a  curl  over  one  eye,  talking  and 
laughing  the  while. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  reflected  Mrs.  Sands ; 
"I've  hevery  thing  to  make  me  'appy.  There's 
Martin,  with  his  pranks  and  jokes ;  Vs  enough  to 
put  the  'art  into  anybody." 

Martin  was  a  vapid-looking  youth,  who  did  er- 
rands for  the  box-office.  He  had  been  seen  in  the 
morning  permitting  himself  to  be  embraced  by 
the  ladies,  and  from  his  lips  had  issued  the  follow- 
ing scintillation  of  wit :  — 

"Ladies!  ladies!     Now,  really!     O!    Ah!" 

"I  believe,"  went  on  Mrs.  Sands,  "I  should  pick 
up  a  bit  if  you  gals  was  to  stand  me  treat  for  a 
mug  of  beer.  It  wouldn't  come  'ard  on  any  of 
you." 

The  girls  promised,  and  Mrs.  Sands  reciprocated 
by  calling  herself  Mother  Goose,  and  the  ladies 
her  little  geese. 

Gail  was  somewhat  timid  about  descending  in  her 
strange  dress  until  such  times  as  the  others  should 
be  ready ;  but  as  the  room  was  far  from  comforta- 
ble, she  stepped  outside  the  door,  and,  from  the 
rough  gallery  where  she  stood,  she  could  see  the 
ropes  and  rigging  of  the  theatre. 

In  a  vast  space  above  the  stage,  almost  twice  as 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  LADDER.       95 

high  as  that  portion  which  is  seen  from  the  audi- 
tory, were  the  dim  outlines  of  dragons,  cloud  cars, 
and  all  manner  of  strange  shapes.  About  her 
were  the  great  coral  reefs  to  be  used  in  the  last 
act,  to  you,  in  the  enchantment  of  a  little  distance, 
a  vast  spangled  grotto,  where  sirens  glance  out 
from  sparkling  shells  that  glow,  now  red,  now 
green,  now  white,  in  the  changing  light;  jewels 
turning  from  ruby  to  emerald,  and  from  emerald 
to  diamond. 

The  other  ladies  being  ready,  Gail  descended 
with  them  to  the  stage.  She  found  managers, 
actors  and  actresses,  carpenters  and  scene-shifters, 
in  a  state  of  much  excitement,  and  herself  in  a 
crowd  of  demons,  dragons,  knights,  monks,  slaves, 
ladies,  fairies,  and  hobgoblins.  There  was  a  strong 
infusion  of  super  and  swearing,  and  none  of  the 
motley  throng  were  in  the  best  of  humor.  The 
poor  little  fays  exhibited  a  very  mortal  anxiety 
for  their  toes  and  their  dresses,  and  the  knights 
were  no  more  human  than  the  dragons  in  their 
efforts  to  place  themselves  in  their  proper  rank  in 
the  procession. 

Gail  was  thankful  when  the  music  sounded,  and 
the  great  discordant  mass  was  sifted  through  a 
side  wing  on  to  the  stage,  and  into  perfect  har- 
mony. 


96  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

Poor  as  the  position  was,  and  as  much  pain  as  it 
had  caused  her,  Gail  felt  something  of  a  thrill  when 
she  found  herself  standing  on  the  stage  for  the  first 
time,  suiTounded  by  so  dazzling  a  multitude,  and 
fronting  a  vista  of  shining  halls,  golden  pillared 
and  sparkling  in  tinted  lights.  She  felt  that  the 
least  had  a  part  to  play  in  the  beauty  of  the  whole, 
and  she  took  care  that  her  own  attitude  should 
conform  to  the  general  harmony. 

When  the  curtain  came  down  on  this  gay  scene, 
everything  else  came  down  also.  The  fairies  de- 
scended among  rough  boards  and  some  rough 
language,  with  no  wings  to  help  them  fly  from 
harm.  The  piece,  so  carelessly  rehearsed,  as  far  as 
one  little  dance  was  concerned,  seemed  at  night  to 
have  become  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 

Between  each  act  it  was  as  if  a  mania  for  de- 
struction had  seized  the  scene-shifters.  Scenes 
bore  down  directly  in  the  way  of  casual  by-stand- 
ers  in  a  most  alarming  manner.  One  genteel  indi- 
vidual, who  had  engaged  as  a  "super"  out  of 
curiosity,  was  most  unfortunate.  Wherever  he 
sought  refuge,  some  heavy  article  on  castors,  di- 
rected by  some  unseen  impetus,  made  its  way  to- 
wards him  with  fearful  speed.  Or  he  would  hear 
from  above  a  voice  shout,  in  language  one  might 
expect  from  below,  "  Keep  out  of  the  way,  if  you 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  LADDER.       97 

don't  want  your  damned  head  broke!"  and  be- 
fore the  knowledge  .  that  it  was  he  who  Was 
meant  could  dawn  upon  his  perceptions,  down 
would  slam  some  large  property  within  an  inch  of 
his  person.  Perhaps  judging  the  green-room  to  be 
the  safest  place  for  a  novice,  under  such  pressing 
circumstances,  he  repaired  to  that  apartment  some- 
what hastily,  closely  pursued  by  a  "scene,"  the 
destination  of  which  appeared  to  be  his  destina- 
tion, and  its  course  his  course,  however  he  might 
dodge  and  diverge  to  get  clear  of  it. 

At  intervals,  little  swarms  of  fays  would  light 
on  the  big  round  of  the  act  drop,  and  be  scared 
off  by  the  lively  tendencies  of  inanimate  objects, 
or  the  unexpected  hitching  up  of  the  curtain. 

The  stage  manager  —  a  stout,  apoplectic  char- 
acter, who,  to  use  Mrs.  Sands's  expression,  was  apt 
to  be  "  spleeny  "  —  appeared  to  be  in  his  element. 
There  were  some  large  squares  of  looking-glass 
to  be  used  in  the  last  act  that  seemed  to  awaken 
the  most  intense  emotional  interest  in  this  man's 
breast.  In  the  course  of  the  evening  he  created 
a  general  panic  by  groaning  out,  "My  God,  we're 
ruined !  Every  bit  of  that  glass  gone  to  smash, 
and  the  whole  piece  rested  on  it."  No  wonder  it 
was  broken. 

It  turned  out,  however,  to  be  only  a  crack  of  the 
7 


98  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

mind  on  the  part  of  the  manager,'  for  the  glass 
was  found  quite  safe. 

Every  now  and  then,  this  man  would  appear  in 
the  wings  talking  and  gesticulating  so  violently 
that  at  first  Gail  took  fright  lest  some  immediate 
danger  to  life  or  limb  were  apprehended  from  some 
invisible  source,  and  was  relieved  to  find  it  was 
only,  "  My  God !  put  down  your  border  lights,  or 
we're  smashed;"  or,  "Damn  you,  lower  your  flies;" 
and  that  "  we're  smashed "  referred  to  the  piece, 
and  not  to  the  people.  No  one  seemed  much  dis- 
turbed by  his  way  of  proceeding,  and  the  play 
went  on  quite  smoothly  in  spite  of  him. 

It  appeared,  however,  that  there  was  ill  feeling 
towards  him  in  the  hearts  of  the  scene-shifters,  one 
of  whom  was  heard  to  mutter  to  himself,  "  Damn 
him,  if  I  had  my  way,  I'd  travel  over  it,"  —  mean- 
ing the  manager's  favorite  glass. 

With  some  jostling  and  promiscuous  prompting, 
from  all  concerned,  the  dance  was  successfully 
spoiled.  But  to  cover  the  defeat,  the  bright  but- 
terflies, whom  Gail  had  seen  in  the  grubbing  pro- 
cess, came  floating'about  the  stage  —  beings  that 
seemed  as  if  they  could  have  been  born  of  no  low 
thing,  but  were  the  beautiful  offspring  of  the  natu- 
ral union  between  motion  and  music,  —  so  did 
they  flout  into  harmony  with  its  dreamy  move- 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  LADDER.        99 

merit,  and  twinkle  into  brightness  with  its  merry 
moods. 

Gail  began,  after  not  many  nights,  to  sicken  of 
her  monotonous,  unsatisfactory  duties,  and  the  silly 
jingle  and  tawdry  dresses  of  the  piece.  From 
watching,  hoping,  and  striving  to  make  the  most 
of  her  little  part,  in  order  to  impress  the  manage- 
ment favorably,  she  had  fallen  into  hopelessly  pic- 
turing improbable  scenes  and  events,  in  which  the 
manager  should  recognize  her  genius,  and  straight- 
way advance  her  to  the  foremost  ranks,  or  falling 
into  little  spasms  of  excessive  nervousness  at  the 
thought  of  appealing  to  him  in  his  office. 

Behind  the  scenes  he  usually  appeared  good- 
natured,  though  often  a  little  intoxicated.  But  in 
his  office,  on  pay  days,  — the  only  occasions  when 
Gail  saw  him  there,  — he  was  always  sober,  not  to 
say  cross.  And  the  little  scene  which  invariably 
transpired,  did  not  encourage  the  timid  girl  to 
reveal  her  secret  aspirations  to  him. 

Mr.  Lennox  occupied  one  side  of  the  table,  with 
his  face  bent  uncompromisingly  over  vai'ious  papers 
and  programmes,  while  opposite  to  him  sat  the 
paymaster,  who  appeared  to  have  a  chronic  objec- 
tion to  paying  anything. 

He  tolerated  the  "  company,"  each  one  of  whom 
always  greeted  him  with,  "  Ah,  Mr.  Macks,  we're 


100  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

never  sorry  to  see  you  on  pay  days."  But  as  re- 
garded "  the  extra  ladies,"  he  would  express  himself 
"  dead  beat,"  or  "  blowed,"  if  ever  he  "  saw  that  face 
on,"  at  all. 

He  would  begin  with  each  lady  by  offering  first 
a  quarter,  then  a  half  of  what  was  due;  and  not 
until  Mrs.  Sands  had  had  what  she  called  a  "  bout 
with  Macks,"  would  he  pay  the  whole. 


AN   EPISODE.  101 


CHAPTER  V. 

AN   EPISODE. 

IT  was  getting  on  towards  "  positively  the  last 
night,"  and  already  the  old  show  piece  had  to  dis- 
pute its  way  with  "  off  nights  "  and  "  benefits." 

Gail  stood  in  the  wing  reflecting  on  this  fact,  and 
on  the  step  she  had  taken.  She  was  in  no  very  san- 
guine humor,  and  her  object  seemed  more  hope- 
lessly distant  than  ever.  No  one  had  discovered 
innate  talent  in  the  manner  of  her  walk,  her  dress, 
or  the  way  in  which  she  stood  on  the  stage,  —  for 
she  did  no  more,  —  the  dance  having  dwindled 
into  a  mere  tableau  in  the  background.  There 
was  nothing  left  but  the  old  story  —  to  tease,  and 
plod  her  way  up. 

Even  could  she  achieve  it,  Gail  did  not  look  upon 
the  second  round  of  the  ladder  with  much  more 
favor  than  the  first.  Self-possession  and  a  knowl- 
edge of  stage  business  could  as  well  be  acquired  in 
the  study  and  performance  of  parts  true  to  human 
nature  as  those  that  were  not.  In  truth,  she  felt 
that  her  genius  had  as  good  a  chance  of  progress 
and  development  in  the  standing  lady  as  in  the 


102  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

walking  lady,  a  stiff  little  being,  who,  when  she 
has  said,  "  Nay,  uncle,"  or  «  Pray  explain,  guardi- 
an," is  made  to  stand  on  the  stage  through  scenes  at 
least  calculated  to  awaken  her  interest,  if  not  her 
emotions,  with  no  mode  of  expression  but  that 
given  to  dumb  animals  or  idiots  —  pantomime. 

The  manager's  office  was  situated  near  the  spot 
where  Gail  stood,  and  occasionally  she  caught  the 
sound  of  his  voice  and  that  of  the  prompter  in 
conversation.  Suddenly,  words  fell  on  her  ear 
that  caused  her  to  turn  first  red,  then  white,  and 
made  her  heart  beat  with  painful  violence. 

A  new-comer  had  joined  the  couple  in  the 
manager's  room  —  a  gentleman  who  was  to  play 
Mercutio  on  the  following  night.  The  occasion 
was  his  own  benefit,  and  an  actress,  celebrated  in 
the  part  of  Romeo,  had  been  especially  engaged 
by  him,  to  add  her  performance  to  the  attractions 
of  the  bill. 

"  Here's  a  pretty  to  do,"  cried  this  new-comer ; 
"a  note,  at  the  last  moment,  from  Miss  Ceelems, 
announcing  that  she's  sick,  and  can't  appear  as 
Juliet  to-morrow  night." 

"  The  deuce  ! "  exclaimed  the  manager. 

"  The  dickens ! "  echoed  the  prompter. 

Gail's  heart  beat  faster,  and  she  breathed  with 
some  difficulty,  for  a  very  wild  idea  flashed  into 
her  brain. 


AN   EPISODE.  103 

"It's  a  shame,"  continued  Mercutio,  warmly; 
"it'a  personal  spite,  and  nothing  more.  Some  peo- 
ple give  themselves  airs.  She  would,  at  best, 
only  go  on  for  the  part.  I  knew  that  girl  when 
she  was  glad  to  get  utility  business.  For  Heaven's 
sake,  is  there  any  one  else  up  in  the  part  ?  " 

Gail's  quickened  hearing  caught  every  sound. 

"Who  should  there  be,  my  dear  fellow?"  said 
the  manager,  taking  his  cigar  from  his  mouth. 
"  Our  juvenile  lady  is  off  on  a  furlough,  and  really 
ill, besides.  Put  up  something  else,  my  boy;  'tis 
your  only  chance." 

"  As  good  throw  up  the  whole  affair,"  muttered 
Mercutio ;  "  and  I  can't  do  that.  It's  too  late." 

Gail  blessed  Mercutio. 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,"  said  the  prompter,  in  a  tone 
of  soft,  tolerant  impatience,  "this  is  no  time  to 
come  to  us  with  a  story  like  that.  O,  good  gra- 
cious, no !  Why,  the  posters  are  all  out,  with  Mrs. 
Hazledean's  name  in  print." 

"  It's  no  fault  of  mine,"  said  Mercutio,  moodily. 

"But  what  shall  we  do?  what  shall  we  do?" 
repeated  the  prompter,  still  appealing  to  Mercutio, 
with  a  sort  of  mild  reproach.  "  Have  you  the  doc- 
tor's certificate  that  the  lady  is  really  ill  ?  " 

"  111  or  shamming,"  said  Mercutio,  "  she'll  never 
play  at  my  benefit ;  not  if  there's  a  Juliet  to  be  found 
on  earth." 


104  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

At  that  moment  appeared — from  the  tomb  it 
would  seem,  to  judge  from  her  white,  frightened 
face  —  a  Juliet. 

"  Let  me  play  the  part ;  I  have  studied  it,  and 
rehearsed  it  often,"  pleaded  Gail,  when  she  could 
command  herself  sufficiently  to  conceal  her  agita- 
tion a  little. 

The  three  old  stagers  eyed  the  little  victim  to 
the  stage  mania  as  if  they  had  never  seen  such  a 
specimen  before.  The  prompter  was  the  first  to 
break  the  silence,  which  he  did  softly  and  helpless- 
ly, still  in  an  appealing  manner. 

M  O,  good  gracious,  Tom,  here's  a  go  off.  Why, 
the  lady  must  have  taken  leave  of  her  senses.  But 
what  are  we  to  do?  what  are  we  to  do?" 

This  prompter  was  not  only  soft  spoken,  but 
^soft  appearing  also ;  fat,  and  with  light  eyes,  and  an 
habitually  worried  expression.  He  stepped  softly 
also,  even  when  not  on  duty,  and  his  whole  manner 
seemed  to  say,  "  O,  my  goodness !  you  are  forgetting 
yourself,  and  making  too  much  noise."  He  had 
given  human  nature  up  long  ago,  as  a  thing  full  of 
whims,  that  could  not  be  got  to  conform  sensibly 
to  the  adopted  rules  of  the  world  —  by  world  he 
meant  stage  world  —  a  thing  ridiculous  enough, 
but  that  must  be  tolerated. 

"  Suppose  you  try  me,"  continued  Gail,  gaining  a 


AN   EPISODE.  105 

little  courage  from  the  very  desperation  of  the 
case.  "  There  is  the  rehearsal ;  if  I  fail  at  that,  or 
if  that  would  leave  you  no  time  to  get  some  one  in 
my  place,  try  me  to-night  on  the  stage,  after  the 
piece  is  over." 

The  manager  tapped  the  table  with  his  finger, 
and  Mercutio  kept  his  eyes  on  the  floor,  while  the 
prompter  murmured,  "  Dear,  -dear  me !  here's  a 
hopeless  case ;  something  must  be  done,  surely." 

His  tone  stung  Gail  a  little  —  made  her  a  little 
angry ;  still,  in  the  dead  silence  that  followed,  she 
did  not  gain  in  confidence.  She  turned  from  the 
prompter,  and  intuitively  felt  the  pulse  of  the  two 
others.  She  was  not  encouraged  by  the  result. 
Mercutio  looked  supercilious  and  forbidding,  while, 
to  win  Mr.  Lennox,  who  was  a  man  of  impulse  and 
pleasure,  she  must  be  pleasing ;  and  Gail  not  only 
shrank  from  assuming  any  of  the  little  coquettish 
pleadings  that  might  influence  such  a  man,  even, 
in  so  important  a  decision ;  but  her  sense  of  honor 
forbade  such  a  course.  She  could  not  decide.  The 
silence  embarrassed  her,  and  forced  her  to  speak. 

"  I  know  I  am  asking  a  very  great  favor,"  she 
said,  with  a  sudden  flush  overspreading  her  face, 
"  and  one  that  must  seem  ridiculous  to  .you,  with 
your  experience  of  the  stage  mania,  and  the  little 
it  often  means  besides  self-illusion.  I  know,  too, 


106  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

that  giving  the  chance  to  a  stranger  might  occasion, 
discontent  in  your  company.  But  —  let—  We 
all  have  to  make  a  beginning  somewhere,  and  I  am 
only  unfortunate  in  being  obliged  to  speak  without 
even  the  poor  introduction  that  almost  any  one  else 
might  get.  But  if  you  have  any  faith  in  the  old 
proverb,  that '  where  there's  a  will  there's  a  way,' 
you  need  not  be  afraid  to  at  least  grant  me  a  trial, 
where  there  is  so  little  risk." 

Gail  ceased  speaking,  with  a  confused  sense  that 
she  had  not  -bettered  her  cause,  and  had  only  given 
the  manager  the  cue  for  a  dozen  excuses  for  getting 
rid  of  her. 

She  was  not  a  little  surprised  when  Lennox  bent 
his  handsome  face  towards  her,  and  spoke  in  a 
manner  at  once  so  kind  and  polite,  that  she  felt 
the  tears  start  to  her  eyes.  She  bit  her  lip  quickly 
to  check  them. 

"  My  dear  girl,"  said  the  manager,  "  you  do  not 
realize  what  you  propose.  One  of  our  oldest 
actresses  would  hardly  succeed  under  such  circum- 
stances." 

"Perhaps  a  young  one  would,"  answered  Gail,  a 
spark  of  native  wit  getting  the  better  of  her  em- 
barrassment. 

Lennox  smiled  graciously,  and  was  pleased ;  still 
he  continued,  "It's  a  very  different  thing  to  do 


AN   EPISODE.  107 

well  at  a  rehearsal,  with  only  one  or  two  about, 
than  when  you  have  a  thousand  before  you." 

"  True,"  said  Gail ;  "  but  the  second  ordeal  is  the 
less  trying." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  "  asked  the  manager. 

"With  the  instinct  of  an  actress,"  answered 
Gail. 

Unknown  to  Gail,  the  tide  worked  a  little  in  her 
favor.  It  so  happened  that  Lennox,  in  his  frequent 
visits  behind  the  scenes,  had  been  not  a  little  im- 
pressed by  her.  She  had  awakened  his  curiosity 
and  interest,  without,  however,  pleasing  him.  She 
had  taken  the  careless,  gallant  compliments  it  was 
his  habit  to  pay  the  ladies  of  the  theatre,  with  a 
mixture  of  sensitiveness,  sarcasm,  and  coldness, 
that  was  not  at  all  flattering,  but  that,  while  it 
piqued  him,  made  her  favor  seem  the  more  desira- 
ble; and  now  that  he  saw  her  face  lightened  by 
the  intensity  of  her  desire,  and  felt  her  wish  to 
please  him  manifested  in  her  tone,  half  proud  and 
half  pleading,  he  felt  an  interest  in  the  odd  little 
scene  just  taking  place,  that,  with  a  less  attractive 
heroine,  would  have  been  simply  annoying.  He 
reflected  that  a  fine  figure  and  a  fine  dress  cover  a 
multitude  of  deficiencies  in  talent,  and  made  up 
his  mind  to  grant  the  trial.  He  turned  to  Mercu- 
tio,  and  whispered,  aside,  "  There  is  no  one  else  up 


108  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

in  the  part ;  and  suppose  we  try  the  lady.  She  is 
not  bad  looking." 

"  I've  no  objection  to  listening  to  the  lady's  read- 
ing of  the  part,  if  you  say  so,"  answered  Mercu- 
tio,  aloud,  and  with  no  very  good  grace.  "It's  bad 
business,  at  best;  and  I  suppose  we  can  cut  the 
part  —  that  is,  if  she  succeeds  after  a  fashion." 

"  You  may  kill  the  part  if  you  cut  it,"  answered 
Gail,  anxiously ;  "  at  least,  let  me  try  first." 

"  If  the  bills  were  not  out,"  said  Mercutio,  with- 
out heeding  Gail,  "we  might  have  made  a 'first 
appearance '  of  it,  and  perhaps  saved  ourselves  in 
that  way ;  but,  as  it  is,  don't,  for  God's  sake,  men- 
tion it  outside  the  building  till  to-morrow  night." 

Poor  Gail  stood  by,  eagerly  drawing  the  honey 
out  of  this  speech,  too  much  elated  to  heed  its 
rudeness.  She  gave  her  hand  to  the  manager, 
however,  with  some  words  very  grateful  and  un- 
business-like. 

"My  dear,"  answered  the  manager,  retaining  the 
hand,  "  I  am  pleased  to  have  it  in  my  power  to 
gratify  a  lady ; "  and  he  lowered  his  voice,  with  a 
look  of  admiration  that  startled  Gail  a  little. 
"  You  shall  have  it  your  own  way,  my  dear.  The 
part  shall  not  be  cut ;  and  I  think  there'll  be  no 
danger  but  that  you  will  appear  at  night.  It  de- 
pends on  me  to  decide,  you  know." 


AN   EPISODE.  109 

Gail  felt  the  color  rise  in  her  cheeks.  She  could 
not  be  altogether  blind  to  the  tone  and  emphasis 
of  the  manager's  last  sentence,  and  she  hurriedly 
gave  one  of  those  answers  that  are  born  of  a  min- 
gling of  emotion,  conscience,  instinctive  purity, 
policy,  and  wit.  "  No,  it  must  depend  on  my  own 
ability  and  your  judgment,"  she  said.  "I  could 
not  think  of  taxing  your  kindness  further." 

Lennox  was  a  little  puzzled,  but  took  his  cue 
from  the  tone,  which,  coming  more  directly  from 
conscience,  was  somewhat  decided  and  forbidding, 
and  he  bade  Gail  "good  night"  a  little  coldly. 

Poor  Gail  stood  for  an  instant  bewildered  and 
scared ;  she  seemed  to  be  drawing  her  great  for- 
tune by  an  awfully  slender  thread  —  the  caprice 
of  a  man  whose  governing  power,  both  instinct 
and  reason  told  her,  was  impulse.  She  had  to 
thank  his  impulse  for  the  very  chance  she  was 
dreaming  over  so  wildly  at  the  moment,  for  might 
he  not  easily  have  engaged  the  leading  lady  of 
some  other  theatre?  This  thought  made  Gail 
dizzy,  standing,  as  she  fancied  herself,  on  the  brink 
of  a  precipice.  "  After  all,  it  is  very  near  the  time, 
and  it  would  cost  them  a  great  deal  to  hire  an 
actress."  Then,  by  a  fatal  fascination,  she  peeped 
again  into  the  abyss.  "  It  seems  strange,  though, 
he  should  be  willing  to  trust  so  important  a  part 


110  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

to  a  stranger ;  but  perhaps  he  does  not  really  mean 
to  trust  me,  but  only  lets  me  rehearse,  and  yet 
he  said  — "  Gail  glanced  up  hastily  to  banish  a 
troublesome  idea.  The  curtain  was  falling  on  the 
last  act,  and  she  had  forgotten  to  go  on.  The 
omission  gave  her  an  odd  sensation.  She  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  the  old  show  piece  for  weeks, 
instead  of  only  for  an  instant.  She  hurried  with 
the  crowd  to  her  dressing-room,  and  began,  appar- 
ently, to  prepare  for  home,  but,  in  reality,  to  aban- 
don herself  to  the  new  dream  that  had  begun  to 
weave  itself  about  her  senses.  There  was  even 
more  noise  than  usual  among  the  ladies  of  the 
piece,  but  Gail  heard  none  of  it,  till  her  dream  was 
disturbed  by  a  loud  laugh  in  her  ear. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  the  voice,  when  the 
laugh  had  ceased;  "have  you  fallen  in  love?  or 
what?  I've  spoken  to  you  three  times,  and  you 
haven't  answered  me  once." 

"  I  didn't  hear  you,"  replied  Gail,  trying  to  arouse 
herself.  She  might  have  added,  "  I  have  been  lis- 
tening to  the  music  in  my  dream,"  for  her  rapt  face 
said  as  much. 

"I  should  think  not,"  continued  the  voice. 
"You've  been  smiling  away  to  yourself  with 
your  eyes  staring  at  I  don't  know  what." 

"  Let  her  alone,"  put  in  Isabel  Lester,  in  her  usual 
sharp  way  —  "perhaps  she's  happy." 


AN   EPISODE. 


Ill 


"  I  wanted  to  know  why  you  didn't  go  on,"  per- 
sisted the  other  lady.  "  I  saw  Seely  peering  round 
there,  and  he'd  notice  if  a  girl  stood  an  inch  out 
of  place,  and  report  —  the  spy." 

"  I  had  something  pleasant  to  think  of,  and  forgot 
the  scene,"  answered  Gail.  As  she  glanced  around 
the  little  crowd  of  faces  turned  towards  her,  her 
heart  smote  her  that  she  should  be  so  much  more 
fortunate  than  those  who  perhaps  had  hoped  and 
hungered  with  her,  even  though  their  outsides 
seemed  to  match  so  poorly  with  her  soul,  that  the 
thought  hacl  never  entered  her  head  before.  Gail 
had  dressed  for  home  quickly,  in  spite  of  her  ab- 
sorbed state,  for  she  was  eager  to  impart  her  good 
news.  When  she  crossed  the  dark  stage  on  her 
way  out,  the  manager  and  prompter  had  not  left 
the  building.  They  stood  together  in  one  of  the 
wings.  Gail  heard  the  prompter's  well-known  voice 
murmuring  in  his  well-known  manner,  "  But,  my 
dear  sir,  the  case  is  wholly  unprecedented  —  wholly 
unprecedented." 

She  did  not  wait  to  hear  more,  although  she  felt 
the  prompter's  mind  was  still  running  on  the  late 
disgrace  to  stage  convention,  for  she  dreaded  meet- 
ing the  manager  —  she  could  not  tell  why.  There 
was  nothing  disrespectful  in  what  he  had  said  to 
her,  and  yet,  as  she  hurried  along  the  street,  she 


112  BEHIND   THE    SCENES. 

seemed  to  be  escaping  from  something  in  her  new- 
found joy  that  pained  her,  shamed  her,  and  flat- 
tered her,  in  one  breath.  She  still  felt  the  pressure 
of  the  manager's  hand  on  her  own,  and  heard  the 
tone  of  his  voice  in  her  ear,  uttering  such  words 
as  she  had  only  heard  in  her  wildest  dreams.  "He 
can't  be  a  bad  man,"  thought  poor  Gail,  "  to  rise 
so  much  above  other  managers  as  to  dare  to  think 
and  act  for  himself.  To-morrow  I  will  speak  more 
kindly — I  mean  politely —  to  him,  as  I  ought  to  any 
one  who  has  been  so  good  to  me."  The  next  mo- 
ment she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  as  if  to  hide 
her  blushes  from  the  darkness  and  from  herself. 
She  thought,  "  Perhaps  this  is  what  people  mean 
when  they  talk  about  the  temptations  of  the  stage. 
I  don't  want  to  please  him  only  because  I  think  he 
has  been  good,  but  because  I  am  afraid  to  offend 
him.  I  believe  I  would  do  almost  anything  short 
of  absolute  crime  rather  than  lose  this  chance.  It 
seems  like  life  itself  to  me,"  she  added  with  vehe- 
ment intensity,  "  for  I've  hoped,  and  planned,  and 
thought  so  much  about  being  an  actress,  that  I  had 
rather  not  live  than  lose  this  chance,  poor  though 
it  is."  Gail  did  not,  however,  look  upon  it  as  poor : 
on  the  contrary  she  reasoned,  "  They  will  be  sure 
to  want  me  when  they  see  how  well  I  play."  But 
she  thought  all  manner  of  contradictory  things, 


AN   EPISODE.  113 

and  was,  in  truth,  almost  intoxicated  by  her  sud- 
den blissful  luck.  She  had  already  lived  so  much 
in  her  new  dream  that  her  life  of  yesterday  seemed 
a  thing  of  long  ago.  People  in  dreams  or  in  trance 
have  very  little  sense  of  time.  Already  she  could 
afford  to  jest,  in  her  own  mind,  at  past  disap- 
pointments. Her  stage  experience,  until  now,  had 
made  her  sensitive  and  taciturn.  She  had  been 
wont  to  avoid  all  conversation  concerning  it  in  the 
family,  and  it  had  been  her  habit,  after  the  perform- 
ance each  night,  to  slip  into  the  house  noiselessly, 
lest  Mrs.  Hart,  whose  curiosity  in  the  matter  was 
lively,  might  be  awake,  and  interrogate  her  as  to 
the  night's  experience. 

To-night,  as  she  entered,  she  even  hoped  her 
mother  had  not  retired;  for  she  was  ready  to  dance 
for  joy,  and  light-hearted  enough  to  have  said  all 
manner  of  silly  things.  She  began  to  wonder  how 
the  event  could  have  seemed  unnatural  a  few  hours 
back. 

"  Is  that  you,  Abby  ?  "  called  Mrs.  Hart  from  the 
sitting-room.  "  Do  come  in  and  tell  me  just  what 
happened  from  the  time  you  went  inside  the  thea- 
tre till  you  got  home  again." 

Gail  answered  this  accustomed  greeting  of  her 
mother's  with  a  smile  so  happy  and  so  peculiar, 
that  Mrs.  Hart,  who  had  been  in  daily  expectation 
8 


114  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

of  her  daughter's  promotion,  immediately  divined 
the  cause. 

"  Isn't  it  splendid,  mother  ?  Only  think,  the  very 
best  part !  It  seems  too  good  to  be  true,"  cried  Gail, 
unable  to  suppress  her  enthusiasm. 

"I  don't  know,  Abby,  about  too  good  to  be 
true,"  responded  Mrs.  Hart,  in  great  excitement, 
her  face  flushed  with  maternal  pride;  "it's  what 
I've  all  along  told  you.  I've  always  said  about 
that  Union  Theatre,  and  those  stage  managers, 
that  if  you'd  only  let  them  alone,  they'd  come  to 
you,  and  beg  of  you  to  take  the  best  parts ;  and  now 
I  hope  you  see  that  your  mother  knew  best." 

Gail  was  too  happy  to  explain  that  her  case  was 
a  peculiarly  fortunate  one. 

"If  you  had  only  minded  me,"  went  on  Mrs. 
Hart,  getting  a  good  deal  confused,  as  the  necessity 
of  an  immediate  preparation  for  the  performance 
impressed  itself  upon  her,  "  you'd  have  had  things 
in  readiness.  I  don't  suppose,  now,  you've  the  first 
thing  to  wear." 

"  But  perhaps  I  may  not  get  the  part  to  play," 
intimated  Gail. 

"  There's  my  green  alpaca,"  said  Mrs.  Hart,  "  my 
new  one,  if  it  would  only  fit." 

"  Sure  enough,"  said  Gail,  not  in  reference  to 
the  alpaca,  however;  "it  would  be  as  well  to  think 
about  something  to  wear  in  case  of  need." 


AN   EPISODE.  115 

"Now,  if  it  had  only  been  Romeo  you  had  been 
'  cast  up  in?  "  continued  Mrs.  Hart,  reflecting  with 
some  vanity  on  her  knowledge  of  stage  phrases, 
"  we  could  have  done  first  rate,  and  no  thanks  to 
any  one ;  for  there's  those  white  summer  pants  of 
William's,  he's  outgrown  them,  and  they're  bran 
new.  I  always  thought  it  was  foolish,  his  getting 
them  so  late  in  the  season,  when  he  was  just  in  the 
growing  age." 

"  How  absurd,  mother ! "  laughed  Gail. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  that  it  is,"  replied  Mrs. 
Hart,  warmly ;  "  women  do  play  Romeo  —  there's 
Charlotte  Cushman  herself,  she  played  it,  and  I'm 
sure  nobody  had  a  harder  time  to  get  on  to  the 
stage  than  she  did;  and  you're  more  like  her  than 
any  one  else — all  you  girls  are.  There's  little  Mary, 
she'll  make  the  best  play-actress  among  you  yet ; 
what  will  you  do  for  a  dress  ?  " 

"I  know,"  replied  the  daughter.  "I  can  sew 
that  spangled  trimming  I  once  made  on  to  my 
white  satin  dress.  I  made  it  on  foundation,  you 
know,  that  I  might  be  able  to  transfer  it  from  one 
dress  to  another.  We  actresses,"  she  added,  feel- 
ing herself  the  stage-charm  she  had  once  con- 
demned as  affectation  in  others,  "  call  it  faking." 

Gail  could  not  sleep  that  night.  She  underwent 
all  the  fever,  the  pain,  the  joy  of  her  soul's  birth 


116  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

into  a  new  state  of  existence.  In  our  monotonous 
daily  life,  we  change  so  slowly,  that  we  do  not  feel 
ourselves  grow ;  but  with  Gail,  quickened  by  the 
longed-for  event,  it  was  the  start  of  a  new  life.  She 
saw  her  old  self  almost  as  the  butterfly  might  look 
upon  the  larva  as  no  part  of  her  being. 

She  had  now  a  purpose  —  something  to  hold  her 
mind  above  the  petty  jealousies  and  vanities  of  the 
theatre.  She  already  experienced  its  vitalizing 
influence.  She  felt  broad  and  generous  impulses. 
Her  new  soul,  out  of  its  abundance,  was  ready  to 
give.  Her  genius,  too,  seemed  to  have  developed. 

The  part  revealed  itself  to  her.  She  did  not 
model  her  ideal  of  the  character,  holding  it  at  will 
to  assume  or  to  set  aside.  It  was  rather  the  part 
that  took  possession  of  her.  The  conception  of  it 
that  had  long  ago  dawned  in  her  brain  expanded 
itself  in  the  warmth  of  her  new  impetus,  till  it  filled 
every  thought,  nerve,  vein,  and  muscle  of  her  be- 
ing. She  felt  awaken  in  herself  the  sympathies 
of  the  frank,  earnest  character  of  Juliet.  She  re- 
alized the  passion  of , love.  The  very  destiny  of 
Juliet  was  for  the  time  the  foreshadowing  of  her 
own.  At  the  rehearsal  on  the  following  morning, 
Gail  had  become  so  absorbed  in  her  study,  that  she 
was  hardly  aware  of  what  was  passing  around  her. 
The  ballet  made  cutting  remarks,  and  the  actors 


AN   EPISODE.  117 

and  actresses  were  far  too  conspicuously  indiffer- 
ent. Mrs.  Sands  alone  greeted  her  in  her  usual 
manner. 

"Do  you  go  hon  for  the  part,  my  dear?"  she 
said.  "  It's  'eavy  business  for  a  beginner,  though 
it's  not  so  'eavy  as  what  I  'ad  to  do  myself.  I 
went  on  for  Lady  Mac,  and  I  wasn't  in  your  years 
neither."  This  last  remark  savored  of  truth,  as 
Mrs.  Sands  was  considerably  older  than  Gail  at  the 
specified  time,  when  she  played  Lady  Macbeth  at  a 
town  hall  with  a  company  of  rather  verdant  aspi- 
rants for  histrionic  fame. 

As  the  rehearsal  proceeded,  however,  the  actors 
and  actresses  began  covertly  to  watch  her  per- 
formance with  something  besides  indifference,  or 
assumed  indifference.  The  new  sensation  was,  per- 
haps, rather  excitement  than  approval,  and  partook 
a  little  of  the  feeling  with  which  one  watches  a 
gathering  storm  that  one  must  admire  and  dread 
at  the  same  time.  When  not  on  the  stage,  Gail 
sought  the  most  retired  spot  behind  the  scenes, 
that  she  might  record  the  business  she  would  have 
to  remember  at  night,  and  prepare  her  mind  for 
the  next  scene.  While  she  was  occupied  in  this 
way,  a  sentence,  uttered  by  a  voice  close  at  hand, 
startled  her  for  an  instant  from  her  ideal  surround- 
ings. The  speaker  was  concealed  from  her  by  a 


118  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

huge  wing;  but  the  voice  sounded  distinctly  in  her 
ear.  "  What  do  you  think  of  the  new  actress  ?  " 

A  slight  flush  overspread  Gail's  face. 

"  Who  do  you  mean  ?  "  was  the  answer.  "  Len- 
nox's new  favorite  ?  " 

The  flush  in  Gail's  face  deepened  painfully. 

"  She  his  favorite  ?  H£s  the  favorite,  I  should 
think.  She  follows  him  about  like  a  little  kitten  — 
the  fool." 

Gail  became  indignant. 

"  You  may  well  say  fool,"  answered  the  second 
speaker.  "I  declare,  when  I  see  any  one  behave 
like  that,  I  want  to  shake  them.  He  means  to 
engage  her  here  next  season  —  doesn't  he  ?  What 
does  she  do,  I  wonder?  Good  business?" 

"  I  don't  know,  or  care,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned," 
replied  her  companion.  "I  never  was  in  such  a 
theatre  before.  They  don't  care  that  what  the 
public  wants.  Everything  goes  by  favoritism. 
Lennox  and  one  or  two  of  the  big  ones  have  it 
all  their  own  way.  You  can't  get  a  respectable 
actress  to  stay  here.  They  say  they  won't  play 
where  a  theatre  has  the  reputation  this  one  has." 

"It  is  just  like  all  theatres,"  put  in  a  voice  Gail 
well  knew.  "I  never  saw  an  actress  yet  that 
didn't  say  there  never  was  a  theatre  so  bad  as  the 
one  she  happens  to  be  at  and  not  up  in." 


AN  EPISODE.  119 

"  O,  you  shut  up,  Bell !  No  one  can  say  boo  but 
that  you  snap  at  them." 

"  You  must  own,"  replied  the  irrepressible  Bell, 
"  that  she  is  very  beautiful." 

"They  must  mean  some  one  else,"  whispered 
Gail. 

"Well,  prettyish,"  was  the  answer;  "but  it's 
not  a  face  that  strikes  me  at  all." 

"I  was  wrong;  it  is  me,"  again  thought  Gail. 
At  this  moment  the  prompter's  call  sounded  for 
Juliet  to  be  ready,  and  Gail  strove  to  shake  off  the 
odd  mingling  of  elation  and  annoyance  that  had 
taken  possession  of  her.  On  her  way  to  the  stage 
she  met  the  manager,  for  the  first  time  that  morn- 
ing, face  to  face.  Until  now  he  had  manifested 
little  or  no  interest  in  her  trial,  and  had  hardly 
seemed  to  be  aware  of  her  presence  in  the  theatre ; 
but  now  he  approached  her  familiarly,  and,  put- 
ting his  arm  around  her  shoulder,  murmured  some 
compliment  in  her  ear.  "With  the  petty  suspicions 
uppermost  in  her  mind,  she  repulsed  him  with  de- 
cision, and  then  stood  for  a  moment  a  little  scared, 
for  she  remembered  Lennox's  hint,  that  her  appear- 
ance depended  on  his  pleasure  as  well  as  on  her 
success.  But  it  was  only  for  a  moment.  The  in- 
tegrity of  her  character  asserted  itself.  She  col- 
ored with  shame,  and  resolved  to  win  by  her  abil- 


120  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

ity  alone.  She  turned  her  mind  again  to  her  part, 
and  proceeded  to  rehearse  with  renewed  power 
and  interest.  On  her  exit,  Gail  observed  that  the 
ladies  had  issued  from  their  place  of  concealment, 
and  were  promenading  the  side  stage.  Presently 
they  were  joined  by  a  pretty  little  figure,  the  fas- 
cination of  whose  presence  caused  Gail  to  scan  the 
face  with  attention.  It  was  like  a  strain  of  music, 
and  recalled  the  past.  Gail  strove  to  think  where 
she  had  seen  it,  and  remembered  suddenly  the  old 
legend  of  the  princess.  She  had  not  chanced  to 
see  the  princess  for  a  number  of  years;  but  this 
face  had  in  it  the  pretty  child's  expression  she 
used  to  watch  from  a  distance,  only  it  was  more 
beautiful  than  even  the  picture  she  had  once  car- 
ried in  her  mind.  The  ladies  welcomed  the  prin- 
cesg.  She  seemed  to  be  a  favorite  among  them. 
There  were  no  tears  in  the  beautiful  eyes,  as  there 
had  been  when  Jenny  had  seen  them.  They  were 
merry  with  smiles. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at,  Julie?"  inquired 
one  of  the  ladies.  "  You  seem  to  be  very  much 
amused." 

"  Good  reason  for  it,"  cried  the  beauty,  saucily. 
"What  do  you  think?  That  man  wanted  to 
kiss  me." 

"What  man  do  you  mean,  Seely?  I'd  have 
boxed  his  ears." 


AN   EPISODE.  121 

"Seely!  O,  good  gracious,  no!"  laughed  Julie, 
mimicking  the  prompter.  "  Your  manager,  there. 
Lennox  you  call  him." 

"  O,  Tom  Lennox !  Well,  why  didn't  you  let 
him  ?  " 

"I  thought  I'd  rather  be  excused,"  said  Julie, 
demurely.  The  next  moment  she  added,  "  O, 
hush  !  He's  here ! " 

Gail  raised  her  eyes,  and  caught  an  expression 
in  Julie's  face  that  touched  her.  The  child  was 
evidently  not  so  bold  as  she  wished  to  appear.  It 
was  a  struggle  between  her  vanity  and  some  better 
instinct.  The  manager  advanced  to  the  little 
party,  and,  glancing  at  Gail,  triumphantly  em- 
braced Julie.  "You  are  a  very  pretty  girl,"  he 
whispered  to  her. 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Julie,  archly,  but  not  without 
blushing. 

"  You  know  it,  eh ! "  replied  the  manager.  "  You 
are  a  coquette." 

"  She  says  you  wanted  to  kiss  her,"  put  in  one 
of  the  ladies,  mischievously. 

Julie's  blushing  face  glanced  at  her,  beseech- 
ingly. 

•  "Well,  I  do  now,"  said  the  manager,  looking 
poor  Julie  out  of  countenance  with  his  bold,  hand- 
some eyes. 


122  BEHIND   THE    SCENES. 

"O,  but  you  mustn't.  It  would  be  wicked  — 
wouldn't  it?"  cried  Julie,  a  little  alarmed,  and 
trying  to  disengage  herself  from  the  manager's 
embrace. 

"  Now  you  are  unkind,"  said  the  manager,  "  and 
a  naughty  girl  besides." 

"  Don't  call  names,  sir,  if  you  please,"  replied 
Julie,  pouting.  "  If  I'm  a  naughty  girl,  you'd 
better  go  away.  People  don't  like  to  stay  where 
other  people  are  naughty,  I  should  hope." 

"  Don't  they,  though  ?  "  said  the  manager,  with  a 
laugh.  "  Now  I've  half  an  idea  they  do,  some  of 
them." 

Gail  had  changed  her  place;  she  stood  where 
she  could  not  see  the  speakers,  but  their  voices 
were  still  audible. 

There  was  a  silence ;  and  when  the  manager  next 
spoke,  something  in  his  tone  sent  the  blood  cold 
to  her  heart,  and  caused  her  a  sickening  sensation. 
She  judged,  by  this  altered  tone,  that  he  and  Julie 
were  alone.  His  manner  had  no  longer  the  care- 
less gayety  of  one  half  in  joke.  "  What  do  you  do 
all  day  long,  my  darling  ?  "  he  whispered. 

"All  day  is  a  long  time;  I  couldn't  say,"  was 
Julie's  answer.  There  was  a  change  in  her  voice 
also.  She  spoke  as  if  her  heart  beat  far  too  fast. 

"  Come  up  and  see  me,"  said  the  manager,  still 


AN   EPISODE.  123 

lowering  his  voice.  "  Won't  you  ?  Come.  I'm 
deuced  lonely  sometimes,  and  I  like  to  see  your 
pretty,  merry  face." 

Julie  was,  like  a  poor  charmed  bird,  fascinated 
and  frightened  at  the  same  moment. 

"I  don't  know  whether  I'll  come  or  not,"  she 
said.  "You  mustn't  talk  that  way  to  me  any 
more." 

"  What  way  ?  "  said  the  manager,  laughing,  and 
drawing  Julie  more  closely  to  him. 

"Why,  you  know,  like  that;"  said  Julie. 
"You  frighten  me,  and  it's  wrong  to  frighten 
people." 

"  You  needn't  be  frightened,  my  child,"  said  the 
manager,  so  tenderly  that  poor  Julie  broke  down. 

"  You  —  you'll  —  make  me  fall  in  love  with  you, 
if  you  d  —  d  —  don't  take  care,"  she  half  sobbed ; 
"and  that  would  be  dreadful;  you  —  you  know 
it  would." 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear ;  don't,"  said  the  manager, 
somewhat  hurriedly.  "  Why,  what  could  a  pretty 
little  girl  like  you  see  to  take  a  fancy  to  in  an  old 
fellow  like  me  ?  Come,  run  along  home  now,  dar- 
ling ; "  and  he  added,  somewhat  lower,  "  Come 
here  again  to-night,  and  I'll  walk  home  with  you. 
It's  a  long  distance  for  such  a  pretty  girl  as  you 
to  walk  alone." 


124  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

Gail's  face  flushed  and  grew  cold  by  turns.  She 
felt  an  inclination  to  draw  away  from  the  seem- 
ingly light  being  who  threatened  to  displace  her 
old  pure  image  of  the  princess,  even  while  she 
longed  to  excuse,  protect,  and  defend  Julie.  She 
would  like  to  have  stolen  out  of  the  wing  unseen, 
but  Lennox  evidently  stood  where  Julie  had  left 
him;  for  Gail  presently  heard  the  harsh  voice  of 
Mrs.  Sands  address  him. 

"For  shame,  Lenny  !"  she  cried.  "You're  turn- 
ing that  poor  child's  'ed  with  your  fine  talk.  She 
'ain't  been  brought  up  in  the  profession,  and  she'll 
believe  anything." 

"  Well,  I  don't  mean  to  hurt  her,  Mrs.  Sands," 
said  the  manager,  more  thoughtfully  than  he  had 
yet  spoken. 

"  That's  the  way  you  men  always  talk,"  laughed 
Mrs.  Sands.  "But  you're  gay  deceivers,  the  'ole 
lot  of  you.  I  know  you." 

The  manager  laughed  also,  but  his  answer  showed 
some  disquietude. 

"You're  not  very  complimentary  to  a  fellow, 
Meary,"  he  said.  "One  would  think  we  were  a 
d  —  d  mean  set." 

"  "Well,  now,  mind  you,  Lenny,"  cried  the  ballet 
mistress,  "  you  mustn't  mind  me.  I  don't  mean  the 
'alf  of  what  I  say,  nor  yet  the  quarter ;  and  me  and 


AN   EPISODE.  125 

you  'as  known  each  other  long  enough  not  to  quar- 
rel, I  should  'ope.  You've  a  good  'eart,  Lenny, 
and  there's  no  'arm  in  being  a  little  gay.  I  honly 
wish  it  was  as  heasy  to  be  'appy." 

It  was  drawing  near  the  time  for  Juliet  to  take 
the  sleeping  potion.  Gail  had  placed  her  chief  de- 
pendence on  this  scene.  She  had  the  stage,  and 
could  give  her  undivided  attention  to  it.  She 
wished  again  to  banish  from  her  mind  all  disturb- 
ing causes.  For  this  purpose  she  repaired  to  the 
dressing-room,  and  in  solitude  rehearsed  the  scene. 
When  she  descended  she  was  prepared.  To  ac- 
tresses of  experience  the  ordeal  Gail  was  about  to 
undergo  would  have  been  a  severe  one,  and  far 
more  trying  than  a  debut  before  an  audience.  It 
is  not  the  habit  of  players  to  act  at  rehearsals ; 
and  any  display  of  histrionic  ability  at  such  a  time 
appears  to  them  novice-like.  She  had,  moreover, 
none  of  the  hothouse  stimulus  to  genius  —  the 
lights,  the  excitement,  the  applause,  and  the  living 
picture  that  surrounds  the  debutante  in  the  scenes, 
events,  and  other  characters  of  the  piece.  But  to 
a  mind  like  Gail's  these  things  were  of  little  mo- 
ment. She  hardly  observed  the  groups  of  actors 
and  carpenters  that  filled  up  the  lower  entrances. 
Nor  was  she  disturbed  by  the  noise  and  talking. 
She  stood  for  one  moment  as  if  summoning 


126  BEHIND   THE   SCENES. 

the  scene  before  her.  There  was  a  hush  in  the 
wings. 

On  the  stage  Juliet  reached  out  her  hands  to  the 
nurse  imploringly,  despairingly,  then  forced  her- 
self into  courage.  She  moved  to  the  centre  of 
the  stage,  and  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  vial  in  her 
hand.  Already  some  subtile,  invisible  current  from 
the  potent  draught  seemed  to  creep  through  her 
veins,  freeze  the  blood  in  her  heart,  and  draw  the 
color  from  her  cheek.  Pale  as  death,  with  glazed, 
absent  eyes,  a  voice,  low  and  appalled,  she  ut- 
tered, one  by  one,  her  fearful  surmises.  It  seemed 
not  that  she  conjured  up  the  ghastly  picture  of  the 
tomb,  with  all  its  sickening  images,  but  rather  that 
it  forced  itself  upon  her,  holding  her  spell-bound, 
like  one  in  a  dream. 

She  is  motionless  —  transfixed  with  horror  —  till 
the  last  frenzied  climax,  when,  with  the  weak, 
desperate  effort  and  the  shuddering  scream  of  the 
dreamer,  she  cries,  "  Stay,  Tybalt,  stay !  Romeo, 
I  come  1  This  do  I  drink  to  thee."  The  effect  of 
this  scene,  thus  powerfully  rendered,  was  electrical. 
Before  they  had  had  time  to  reason  or  criticise, 
Gail's  little  audience  was  surprised  into  applause. 
But,  nevertheless,  the  trial  over,  here  is  what  fol- 
lowed :  — 

"By  George,"  said  one  of  the  scene-shifters* 


AN   EPISODE.  127 

"  that's  real  life.  "We  haven't  had  anything  in  the 
make-believe  line  that's  taken  hold  of  me  so  since 
I've  knocked  about  a  theatre,  and  that's  twenty 
year." 

" She'll  do"  said  a  companion. 

"Amen,"  said  Isabel  Lester,  emphatically;  and 
she  glanced  with  malicious  triumph  into  the  faces 
about.  There  was  a  silence. 

"She'd  do  in  a  drawing-room,"  said  Tybalt; 
"  but  she'd  hardly  tell  before  an  audience." 

"The  girl  don't  read  bad,"  said  Paris;  "but  I 
can't  say  much  for  her  elocution." 

"Her  business  is  fearfully  stiflj"  put  in  Lady 
Capulet. 

"  Why,  for  God's  sake,  don't  some  one  tell  her 
the  business  of  the  piece,  if  she's  new  to  the 
stage?"  said  Tybalt. 

"  How  quick  one  can  tell  a  novice ! "  said  Lady 
Capulet.  "  Did  you  ever  see  Mrs.  Reems  play  the 
part  ?  She  was  immense  as  Juliet  —  perfectly  im- 
mense ! " 

"  She  didn't  believe  acting  could  be  learned  in  a 
day,"  sighed  the  Nurse.  "  She  was  forty  years  old 
before  she  ever  went  on  for  the  part.  I  knew  her. 
I  played  with  her  myself  in  the  old  country.  She 
was  then  in  the  juvenile  business,  and  I  was  play- 
ing children." 


128  BEHIND    THE   SCENES. 

"  Were  you,  indeed  ?  "  said  Lady  Capulet.  "  It 
doesn't  seem  as  if  poor  Reemsy  could  have  been 
old  enough  for  the  juvenile  business  at  that  time." 
Lady  C.  inwardly  thought  that  it  didn't  seem  as  if 
poor  Nursy  could  have  been  young  enough  for 
the  children. 

"  Managers  are  not  what  they  used  to  be,"  con- 
tinued the  Nurse.  "  It  is  enough  now  to  have  a 
fine  figure  and  a  good  dress  to  play  Juliet.  Then 
we  had  to  undergo  a  thorough  schooling." 

"  It  is  astonishing,  though,"  said  Friar  Laurence, 
"  how  unerringly  the  instincts  of  genius  hit  at  the 
right  mark.  Here  is  this  young  girl,  possessed  of 
native  talent,  but  wholly  new  to  the  stage,  not 
only  touching  all  our  hearts,  —  old  stagers  that  we 
are,  —  but  managing  her  voice  and  power  with  so 
much  discretion  and  sense,  that  she  at  all  times 
sustains  the  part,  and  is  heard  in  any  part  of  the 
house.  I  have  watched  some  of  her  scenes  myselfj 
from  front." 

If  the  Nurse  had  been  an  argumentative  charac- 
ter, she  would  have  said,  "  Your  theory  leaves  an 
actress  no  room  for  improvement ; "  but  not  being 
so,  she  replied,  "  Ah  !  do  you  think  so,  indeed  ?  " 
with  a  faint  smile.  And  the  friar  felt  he  had 
clenched  the  matter. 

"Is  the  lady  new  to  the  stage ?" inquired  Mrs, 
Hazledean. 


AN    EPISODE.  129 

"Quite  new,"  replied  Lady  Capulet.  "I  think 
it  is  quite  apparent." 

"I  hadn't  noticed  till  now,"  replied  Mrs.  Hazlc- 
dean,  with  a  little  flush.  In  truth,  the  Romeo  of 
the  morning  had  only  indicated  the  consciousness 
of  his  Juliet's  presence  at  such  times  as  they 
should  have  been  in  contact,  and  then  only  by 
murmuring,  "Now,  then,  here's  where  the  embrace 
comes  in;"  "Now  we  have  the  business  of  the 
balcony ; "  or,  "  The  other  side,  if  you  please,  my 
dear." 

On  the  stage,  Mercutio,  who  did  not  rejoice  in 
any  great  reputation  for  gentlemanly  manners, 
seized  the  vial,  at  the  close  of  Juliet's  scene. 
"Don't  throw  your  arm  up  like  that,  madam,"  he 
said ;  "  you're  not  drinking  a  toast.  You  want  to 
speak  out  freer,  too,  and  have  more  ease  and  mo- 
tion, and  not  stand  like  a  stick,  as  if  there  were 
but  one  spot  on  the  stage.  By  George,  you  all 
do  it,  though,  you  novices.  One  would  think  you 
had  never  seen  your  own  arms  or  legs  before,  you 
know  so  little  what  to  do  with  them." 

"Your  idea  of  the  scene  is  different  from  mine," 
answered  Gail,  suddenly  freezing  from  the  languid, 
sunny  warmth  she  had  begun  to  feel  after  her 
effort,  and  in  the  consciousness  of  her  success.  "It 
does  not  seem  to  me  so  natural  to  — " 
9 


130  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"  All  right,"  interrupted  Mercutio,  with  marked 
impatience ;  "  if  you  know  too  much  to  learn !  " 

"I  don't  consider  —  "  began  Gail  again. 

"  Any  time  you  can  let  us  have  the  stage,  between 
now  and  nightfall,"  put  in  the  prompter,  with  mild- 
spoken  sarcasm,  "  we  shall  be  obliged.  Don't  in- 
convenience yourself,  though.  The  ladies  happen 
to  be  waiting  to  go  on  with  their  scene  —  that's 
all!" 

Gail  retired,  without,  however,  apologizing. 
The  sarcasm  of  the  prompter  did  not  strike  her  as 
necessary. 

On  her  exit  she  was  received  in  a  manner  rather 
more  flattering.  Mr.  Lennox,  and  two  gentlemen 
outsiders  who  had  been  pouring  their  enthusiasm 
into  his  ear,  stood  ready  to  welcome  her.  "Bravo! 
bravo!  bravo!"  said  the  manager,  clapping  his 
hands  gently.  "  Bravo ! "  echoed  the  other  gentle- 
men. 

"We'll  make  an  actress  of  you  yet,"  continued 
the  manager.  "You  show  great  promise." 

"  You  are  satisfied  with  me,  then  ?  "  said  Gail. 

"  Yes,  yes !"  answered  the  manager.  "You  do 
as  well  as  that  to-night,  and  you'll  bring  down  the 
house." 

"I  congratulate  myself  that  I  shall  be  present  at 
the  debut  of  one  destined  to  become  one  of  our 


AN   EPISODE.  131 

brightest  stars,"  said  one  of  the  gentlemen,  blush- 
ing slightly.  He  was  quite  young,  wore  eye- 
glasses, had  the  air  of  a  student,  and,  in  the  place, 
very  much  the  appearance  of  a  fish  out  of  water. 

Gail  bowed. 

"  He  means  what  he  says,"  said  the  other  gentle- 
man, who  was  considerably  older,  and  one  of  those 
stout  persons  one  invariably  meets  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  turf,  in  the  frailest  of  vehicles,  —  the  man 
and  carriage  reminding  one  of  a  fat-bodied  spider 
on  slender  legs.  "  You  beat  the  others  all  — 
Tom,  you  ought  to  herald  the  lady's  debut  with 
sometlrins:  besides  an  announcement.  He  don't 

O 

make  the  most  of  his  good  luck — does  he,  my 
dear?" 

Gail  shrank  under  the  gaze  of  this  man,  that 
was  even  more  wanting  in  respect  than  the  man- 
ager's. 

"All  that  will  come  in  time,"  answered  Lennox, 
prudently.  "  One  must  creep  before  they  can-  run, 
you  know." 

M  You  will  not  be  frightened,  my  child  ? "  to 
Gail. 

"No,  sir." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  I  shall  expect  you  to-night." 

"  Thank  you."  Gail  could  say  no  more,  though 
the  manager's  words  gave  her  a  thrill.  Still  she 


132  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

was  not  surprised.  She  had  lived  all  her  life  in 
this  one  dream,  and  she  had  lived  so  much  in  the 
event,  that  she  was  at  home  in  the  new  state  of 
things.  Moreover,  the  realization  of  the  dream 
brings  with  it  care  that  is  not  dreamed  of,  and  that 
seasons  the  dream  with  a  little  real  life. 

Gail's  new  life  opened  to  her  rather  as  an  in- 
tense interest,  than  a  joy.  We  might  say  lives,  for 
she  lived  also  in  the  character  she  was  about  to 
personate,  and  it  would  be  hard  to  say  which  was 
the  greater  romance  of  the  two,  Juliet  or  the  new 
Abigail. 

On  her  way  home  from  the  rehearsal,  Gail 
stopped,  and  said  to  herself,  with  a  sort  of  ec- 
stasy, "  Now  I  am  sure,"  and  fell  to  fancying  all  the 
happy  possibilities  that  might  ensue  from  her  de- 
but. At  her  own  door  she  paused,  with  a  smile. 
"  I  wonder  if  they  can  tell  by  my  face,"  she  thought, 
"  whether  I'm  to  play  or  not.  I  mean  to  look  sober, 
and  make  them  guess;"  to  which  end  she  pushed 
the  door  open  softly,  and  stole  in  upon  the  family. 
She  found  her  mother,  however,  and  her  three 
sisters  in  a  great  bustle  of  excitement,  surrounded 
by  ribbons,  laces,  and  all  manner  of  stage  finery. 

"  Hush ! "  cried  Jennie  Hart,  as  Gail  entered.  "  I 
wonder  if  she'll  notice." 

On  the  table  were  two  lovely  roses,  fresh  as  a 
June  morning ;  one  red,  and  the  other  white. 


AN    EPISODE.  133 

"What  exquisite  flowers!"  said  Gail. 

"She  noticed  them  first  thing!"  cried  Jennie, 
triumphantly. 

"  Well,  you  put  them  right  in  plain  sight  there, 
mounted  up  on  my  cake-basket;  so  no  wonder," 
said  Mrs.  Hart. 

"  They're  for  you  to  wear  to-night  in  the  ball- 
room scene,"  continued  Jennie,  jumping  about  the 
room  in  her  delight.  "That  red  one's  mother's 
present  to  you,  and  the  white  one 's  father's." 

"  How  do  you  know  there  is  to  be  any  ball-room 
scene  ?  "  said  Gail.  "  Perhaps  I  failed,  and  — " 

"  And  perhaps  you  didn't,"  interrupted  Jennie. 
"  That  frown  isn't  near  big  enough  to  cover  a  big 
smile  I  see  underneath.  O,  you  goose !  I  wonder 
the  manager  don't  put  you  into  babies'  parts, 
you're  such  a  poor  actress.  Say,  though,  it  is  all 
right  — isn't  it?" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Gail. 

"  You  must  keep  up  good  pluck,  daughter,"  said 
Gail's  father,  with  a  beaming  smile.  "  Ma  and  I 
and  the  girls  will  be  right  on  hand  to  cheer  you. 
We've  got  first-rate  seats ;  so  you  must  look  out  for 
the  applause." 

"Pa,  dear,"  said  Gail,  something  causing  the 
quick  tears  to  start  in  her  eyes,  "  I  shan't  hear 
any  other  hands  clap  but  yours." 


134  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"  I'm  sure,  Gail,  I  hope  you  will"  said  Jennie, 
turning  it  off  as  a  joke.  "  It  W9uld  be  rather  em- 
barrassing if  pa  was  the  only  one  who  applauded." 

But  Gail  did  not  smite ;  her  face  was  bent  thought- 
fully over  the  flowers.  She  touched  the  white  rose 
with  reverence,  and  whispered  over  it  some  mys- 
terious words.  "  This  shall  be  my  talisman.  When 
I  forget  the  trust  you  have  in  me,  you  dearest  of 
fathers,  and  most  noble  of  men,  I  shall  deserve  not 
to  succeed.  I  will  always  keep  my  home  in  my 
mind,  while  I  am  at  the  theatre." 

"I'm  sure  I'm  thankful  you've  come  home, 
Abby,"  said  Mrs.  Hart,  whose  face  was  much, 
flushed.  "  I've  been  in  such  a  state  of  hurry,  that 
I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I'm  afraid  that  we 
shan't  have  things  in  readiness." 

"  We  shan't  want  to  have  all  these  things  in 
readiness,  as  ma  calls  it,"  laughed  Jennie.  "Just 
look ;  we've  hauled  down  about  everything  in  the 
house  in  case  of  need.  You  see  it's  rather  a  dan- 
gerous thing  having  people  about  that  are  liable, 
with.no  notice  whatever,  to  be  'cast  up.'" 

"  Or  cast  down,  perhaps,"  intimated  her  sister. 

"  Hush,  children ;  you  confuse  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Hart.  "  It's  about  my  bonnets  I'm  puzzling.  I 
don't  know  which  to  wear.  Your  father  says, 
wear  the  one  that  suits  me  best;  but  then  men 


AN    EPISODE.  135 

don't  know  what  they're  talking  about,  in  such 
matters,  half  the  time." 

"  Wear  the  green,"  suggested  Gail,  abstractedly. 

"  Green  ?  What  green  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Hart,  mus- 
ingly. 

"  I  would  say  your  black  lace  bonnet,"  said  Gail, 
rousing  herself. 

"Well,  I  must  wear  that  or  something,"  re- 
sponded Mrs.  Hart. 

"  Why,  yes,"  put  in  Jennie.  "  It  does  seem 
necessary." 

"  I  suppose,  as  your  father  and  mother,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Hart,  "  pa  and  I  will  be  taken  consider- 
able notice  of,  and  the  girls,  too.  I  do  hope  they 
won't  go  to  putting  on  bonnets,  and  making  them- 
selves look  as  old  as  the  hills ;  when,  too,"  —  went 
on  the  mother,  addressing  herself  to  her  younger 
daughters,  probably  in  continuation  of  some  recent 
discussion,  — "  when,  too,  all  the  Beacon  Street 
ladies  wear  little  simple  hats,  and  make  themselves 
look  like  just  what  they  are  —  little  children.  I 
mean,  of  course  —  make  you  look  like  what  you 
are,  and  not  like  grannies,  or  little  dried-up 
nimshies." 

"  If  you  happen  to  see  a  little  dried-up  nimshy 
in  the  audience,  Gail,"  said  Jennie,  merrily,  "  you 
may  know  it's  me;  for  I  feel  as  though  I  must 


136  BEHIND    THE    SCKNES. 

wear  my  best  white  bonnet,  trimmed  with  scarlet 
flowers." 

"  Do  come  here,  Gail,"  said  the  mother,  squinting 
up  her  eyes  to  scan  her  daughter's  face.  "  Seema 
to  me  you're  all  broke  out  with  some  kind  of 
rash." 

"Why,  no,  she  isn't,  ma,"  cried  one  of  the 
younger  girls.  "  You  are  always  saying  something 
to  scare  people,  just  when  they  naturally  want  to 
look  nice." 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  have  the  measles," 
continued  Mrs.  Hart,  "just  at  this  most  particular 
time,  when  everything  depends  upon  you.  I 
should  give  up ;  but  I  suppose  Jennie  could  play 
the  part.  Now,  if  she'd  only  studied  it  up,  in 
case  of — " 

"It's  nothing,  mother,"  interrupted  Gail,  in- 
wardly hoping  that  she  might  look  sufficiently 
pale  by  night  for  the  interesting  Juliet.  "The 
stage  was  cold,  and  I  got  excited  over  my  part, 
and  then  coming  into  this  warm  room  here  — " 

"  Excited  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hart.  "  Gail,  you're 
no  play-actress  at  all.  I've  heard  say  Fanny  Kem- 
ble  would  be  acting  the  greatest  part,  and  turn 
right  round  and  say  the  most  commonplace  thing 
to  some  of  the  other  play-actors.  I  suppose  now, 
if  I'd  gone  on  to  the  stage  when  I  was  a  girl,  I 


AN    EPISODE.  137 

should  have  made  as  great  an  actress  as  Mrs.  Sid- 
dons  by  this  time.  Your  father  says  I  would," 
emphasized  Mrs.  Hart,  in  defiance  of  a  rising  smile 
on  the  countenances  of  her  younger  daughters. 
"For  if  ever  there's  a  fire  or  a  robhery,  I'm  always 
quiet  and  collected ;  and  there  was  Susan  Wilson  — 
she  wanted'to  scream  if  only  the  dinner  pot  boiled 
over,  I  was  going  to  say." 

"  The  talent  for  acting  is  not  confined  to  one 
particular  temperament,  mother,"  said  Gail. 

"  That's  just  what  I  said,"  replied  Mrs.  Hart, 
"and  what  I've  been  telling  you  all  along;  and 
now,  Gail,  what  I  do  hope  is,  that  you'll  come  right 
out  on  the  stage,  the  very  first  thing,  and  speak  up 
tragic,  flourish  around  some,  and  show  them  what 
you  can  do." 

At  night  Gail  repaired  to  the  theatre  somewhat 
earlier  than  was  necessary.  There  was  no  sign  of 
life  in  the  auditory,  and  not  even  a  stray  workman 
behind  the  scenes.  She  remembered,  the  first  night 
she  had  crossed  the  stage,  how  different  it  had 
seemed.  Then  the  excitement  was  all  without; 
now  it  was  within ;  and  yet  everything  about  her 
was  charged  with  the  magnetism  of  her  good 
fortune.  Being  an  actress  meant  so  much  to  Gail. 
It  made  of  her  life  a  romance ;  and  now  that  she 
had  tested  her  own  power,  and  felt  the  foreshadow- 


138  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

ing  of  her  own  success,  it  took  yet  deeper  hold  of 
her.  She  entered  her  dressing-room,  and  was  a 
little  startled  to  find  it  dark.  She  had  not  forgot- 
ten that  it  was  an  off  night ;  but  it  had  not  oc- 
curred to  her  that  on  that  account  the  usual  noisy 
throng  would  be  absent. 

For  an  instant  an  odd  sort  of  a  little'  panic  took 
possession  of  her.  She  produced  a  light,  and  re- 
ferred to  a  programme  she  had  brought  with  her 
to  assure  herself  that  there  could  be  no  mistake  in 
the  date.  It  seemed  strange  that  on  this  eventful 
night  there  should  be  no  stir  and  excitement.  The 
light  revealed  the  empty  dressing-places,  soiled 
dresses,  and  bits  of  dirty  tinsel  and  tarletan  left  on 
them  by  the  ladies.  All  the  brightness  and  glamor 
of  the  old  show-piece  seemed  to  have  burned  itself 
down  to  this  last  charred,  smoky,  sickening  litter. 
Gail  wondered  she  could  have  endured  so  long  the 
hunger  and  discouragement  of  her  old  position. 

The  confident,  dignified  woman,  whose  face  was 
beautified  by  the  soul's  development,  was  indeed  a 
contrast  to  the  nervous,  irritable  girl,  starved  on 
morbid  fancies.  She  stood  before  the  glass  in  all 
the  pride  of  this  new  dignity,  with  the  fresh  en- 
thusiasm of  youth  flushing  her  face,  as  handsome 
a  Juliet  as  ever  appeared  upon  the  stage.  Her 
beauty  was  like  a  garnet ;  it  needed  the  light  of 


AN   EPISODE.  139 

good  fortune  to  bring  out  its  depth  and  richness, 
as  the  jewel  needs  the  sunshine.  To-night  her 
black  eyes  shone  with  a  starry  brilliancy.  The  soft 
lace  of  her  dress  reposed  on  a  bosom  as  white  as 
itself,  and  her  dark  hair  contrasted  with  her  snowy 
forehead.  She  possessed  one  advantage  for  the 
stage,  the  value  of  which,  as  yet,  she  did  not  know 
—  a  perfectly-modelled  figure. 

Having  prepared  the  image  of  Juliet,  she  began 
pacing  the  room  and  rehearsing  her  part,  that  she 
might  put  the  soul  into  it.  There  was  a  soft  knock 
at  the  door.  "  The  call-boy,"  thought  Gail,  "  come 
to  call  the  act ; "  and  she  experienced  a  slight  pal- 
pitation of  the  heart. 

"  Is  Miss  —  er  —  Hart  within  ?  "  inquired  the  gen- 
tle voice  of  the  prompter  outside. 

Gail  stepped  to  the  door. 

"Ah,  Miss  Hart  —  is  it?"  said  the  prompter, 
with  a  step  back,  as  if  the  apparition  startled  him, 
for  some  reason.  Gail  answered,  "  Yes." 

"I  came  up  to  inform  you,"  continued  the 
prompter,  his  eyes  seeking  the  floor,  "that  we 
needn't  trouble  you  to  go  on  for  the  part.  Miss 
Ceelems  has  so  far  recovered  from  her  illness  that 
she  decides  to  appear.  I  was  in  hopes  to  see  you 
before  you  dressed;  but  I  see  you  are  ahead  of 
me.  You  are  quite  early,  my  dear ;  the  half  hour 


140  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

is  not  yet  called."  The  prompter  added  this  gen- 
tly, but  still  not  without  sarcasm;  for  to  be  too 
early  was  novice-like.  "  I  am  sorry  to  have  troubled 
you.  There  is  nothing  more  ;  good  night." 

The  prompter  stole  down  stairs  on  tiptoe,  and 
Gail  still  stood  as  she  had  first  met  him,  with  her 
head  bent,  and  the  door  knob  in  her  hand.  When 
at  last  the  crushed  soul  raised  itself  painfully  and 
laboriously  into  half-consciousness,  she  closed  the 
door,  returned  to  her  dressing-place,  and  began 
slowly  turning  over  the  leaves  of  her  play.  Then 
she  raised  her  face  quickly  to  the  glass,  and  paused. 
Her  lips  pressed  themselves  together  tightly ;  but 
there  were  no  tears.  She  began  removing  the  or- 
naments from  her  dress  hurriedly,  looking,  by  force 
of  habit,  into  the  glass  the  while.  She  did  not 
once  see  the  white,  stricken  face  on  which  her  eyes 
were  fixed.  Her  every  motion,  sure  in  its  aim,  but 
painfully  forced,  had  a  sad  significance.  It  showed 
now  little  strength  the  will  had  to  lift  even  so  light 
a  hand,  that  must  keep  in  check  a  torrent  of  pas- 
sion. She  had  been  thrown  from  her  dizzy  height, 
remorselessly,  into  the  abyss  of  a  bitter,  bitter  dis- 
appointment. The  passions  that  Gail  could  sum- 
mon at  will  were  her  familiars,  and  in  turn  held 
over  her  their  sway.  In  the  darkness  of  her  soul, 
those  who  had  insulted  her  appeared  like  demons, 
triumphing  in  her  downfall. 


AN   EPISODE.  141 

With  every  nerve  quivering  with  pain,  she  op- 
posed them  proudly,  and  strove  to  shield  herself 
from  them  by  a  poor,  pitiful,  mock  indifference. 
She  tried  to  arfange  each  little  thing  in  the  orcler 
it  should  be  for  conveying  home,  lest  any  trivial 
mistake  should  reveal  to  these  imaginary  eyes  that 
she  was  not  mistress  of  herself;  but  her  little  hands 
trembled  over  their  task.  Her  lips  were  hot,  and 
she  struggled  constantly  to  choke  down  a  great 
ache  in  her  throat  that  was  intolerable.  She  had 
had  no  consciousness  of  each  separate  act,  till  her 
hand  came  upon  the  roses  in  her  bosom.  The 
touch  was  like  a  kind  word.  She  bent  her  face 
over  the  roses  and  cried.  Dear  hearts  would  be 
sad  for  her,  and  dear  faces  pale  and  sorrowful,  that 
had  been  made  so  bright  by  her  happiness.  Some- 
thing like  a  flash  of  lightning,  sharp  and  sudden, 
blinded  her  for  an  instant,  and  left  her  trembling 
from  head  to  foot.  She  sprang  forward  and  clasped 
her  hands  fiercely.  It  was  a  moment  of  agony. 
Then  she  flung  herself  down  upon  her  knees  with 
an  angry,  helpless  cry,  buried  her  face  in  her  hands, 
and  sobbed.  All  was  over  —  all  but  the  pain,  the 
sorrow,  the  astonishment,  and  indignation. 

A  few  notes  of  the  overture  struck  upon  her  ears, 
air  I  she  started  up  pale  and  shivering  with  a  new 
terror.  She  must  escape  from  the  theatre  before 


142  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

the  piece  should  begin,  that  no  curious  eye  might 
see  her  wretchedness.  She  finished  her  task  des- 
perately, and  stole  down  stairs  with  a  strange  min- 
gling of  dread  and  defiance.  If  the  manager  had 
seen  the  royal  beauty  of  half  an  hour  ago,  it  is  pos- 
sible he  would  have  let  his  admiration  overcome 
his.  prudence,  and  his  fear  of  offending  his  leading 
lady,  and  Gail  would  have  appeared;  but  if  he  had 
seen  the  bowed  figure  in  its  old  shawl,  and  with  its 
heavy  bundle,  unhappy  face,  and  red  eyes,  it  is 
more  than  possible  he  would  have  looked  another 
way,  and  pretended  he  saw  nothing  of  the  sort. 

Gail  hurried  blindly  across  the  stage  and  out 
into  the  street.  For  some  moments  she  .walked 
rapidly.  Then  she  slackened  her  pace,  in  dread  of 
meeting  the  loved  ones  at  home.  There  was  both 
shame  and  love  in  this  timidity.  It  is  hard  to  own 
to  ourselves  that  we  are  considered  nobody,  and 
harder  still  to  confess  it  to  those  whose  love  for  us 
makes  them  almost  as  blind  as  we  ourselves  are. 
Gail  made  an  effort  to  fortify  herself  for  the  ordeal, 
and  again  quickened  her  steps.  She  had  not  gone 
many  rods,  when  the  voice  of  Isabel  Lester  hailed 
her.  She  drew  back,  and  in  secret  wrung  her  hands. 
She  did  not  want  her  wound  touched,  even  in  sym- 
pathy. 

"I  have  been  following  you,"  said  Isabel,  bluntly. 


AN  EPISODE.  143 

"  I  knew  you  would  be  disappointed  because  they 
took  away  the  part.  They're  a  mean  set." 

Gail  could  not  command  herself  sufficiently  to 
respond,  and  the  two  women  walked  on  some  paces 
without  speaking. 

"You  might  know,"  said  Isabel,  at  last,  jerking 
herself  out  of  the  silence  that  was  growing  awk- 
ward, "that  such  a  modest  little  thing  as  you  — 
though,  by  the  by,  you're  not  so  very  small  — 
would  be  imposed  upon.  Lennox  only  put  you  up 
because  he  knew  the  other  woman  was  in  a  jealous 
tiff,  and  that  as  soon  as  she  found  some  one  in  her 
place,  she'd  come  out  of  it  quick  enough." 

Gail's  eyes  flashed,  but  she  did  not  trust  herself 
to  speak,  lest  Isabel  should  discover  she  had  been 
crying. 

"I'll  give  you  a  little  information  free  gratis," 
continued  Isabel,  with  a  sort  of  dry  sharpness,  "  in 
case  you  ever  try  to  get  on  to  the  stage  again. 
Managers  are  only  to  be  caught  in  their  own  trap  — 
a  brazen  exterior,  and  such  loud-lettered  advertise- 
ment of  yourself  that  a  fast  man  may  read  them 
as  he  runs.  The  theatre  is  just  like  the  caldron 
in  Macbeth.  Not  much  good  gets  into  it,  and 
only  the  scum  rises.  You  know,  as  a  general  thing, 
what  is  light  floats  uppermost,  and  flippant  peo- 
ple get  on  swimmingly,  while  weightier  characters 
sink." 


144  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

Poor  Gail,  too  proud  to  be  pitied,  and,  at  that 
moment,  too  scornful  of  human  failings  to  be  gov- 
erned by  her  own  bitterness,  endeavored  to  lift  her 
mind  from  its  misery,  and  force  herself  to  think 
impartially.  Her  poor  little  bit  of  philosophy  found 
its  way  through  lips  that  could  scarcely  steady 
themselves  to  speak.  "  There  are  facts  that  have 
a  different  story  to  tell.  There  are  truly  great 
actors  and  actresses  on  the  stage.  Then,  it  is  but 
natural  we  must  speak  loud  to  be  heard  in  a  world 
where  so  much  is  going  on.  Because  I  have  to 
condemn  a  few,  I  don't  want  to  judge  all  harshly. 
My  interest  is  a  small  thing  in  itself;  but  if  I 
hold  it  too  near  my  mind's  eye,  it  can  hide  the 
world." 

u  Why,  you've  been  crying ! "  said  Isabel,  quick 
to  detect  the  emotion  in  Gail's  voice.  "I  wouldn't 
mind  it.  Come  to  my  house  some  day,  and  we'll 
look  over  the  New  York  papers.  There  are  lots 
of  theatrical  advertisements  in  them,  and  who 
knows  but  that  something  may  come  of  it  ?  " 

Gail's  heart  sickened.  It  was  the  old  painful 
subject,  only  made  ghastly;  for  to  her  it  had  been 
dead,  and  was  now,  so  to  speak,  rising  from  its 
grave.  She  thanked  Isabel  wearily ;  and,  as  they 
had  reached  Gail's  house,  Isabel  bade  her  good 
night,  with  characteristic  abruptness. 


AN   EPISODE.  145 

Gail  dragged  herself  into  the  hall,  and  stood 
leaning  her  throbbing  temples  against  the  cool 
plaster,  striving  to  press  back  the  hot  tears,  that 
she  might  meet  her  family  in  a  more  courageous 
manner.  She  had  not  long  to  wait,'  for  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Hart  left  the  theatre  immediately  on  the  rising 
of  the  curtain.  But  when  the  door  opened  and 
they  stood  before  her,  she  dared  not  raise  her  eyes 
to  meet  her  'father's  face.  She  could  not  have 
borne  to  see  the  pained  look  that  tried  to  be  cheer- 
ful. To  feel  that  it  was  written  there,  made  her 
heart  ache  anew. 

The  poor  mother  made  no  effort  to  conceal  her 
indignation.  "If  I'd  been  you,  Gail,  I'd  gone  right 
on,  in  spite  of  them,  and  played  the  part.  Every 
play-ac"tress  has  to  do  that,  if  she  wants  to  get 
along.  I  declare,  when  I  saw  that  other  woman 
coming  on  in  your  place,  I  thought  you  had  let 
them  come  it  over  you  with  some  of  their  tricks ; 
and  I  wanted  to  get  hold  of  you  so,  that  I  didn't 
know  what  to  do." 

Gail  shuddered,  and  thought  of  a  distasteful 
farce,  in  which  two  Juliets  appear,  and  a  ranting 
burlesque  ensues. 

"  Never  mind,  Abigail,"  said  her  father,  his  voice 
becoming  unsteady  as  he  spoke ;  "  you  shall  have  a 
10 


146  BEHIND   THE   SCENES. 

theatre  here  at  home,  and  your  mother  and  I  will 
see  you  play." 

Gail  began  to  sob  as  this  homely  balm  touched 
her  wound.  She  longed  to  say  how  the  whole 
world's  applause  could  never  be  so  precious  to  her 
as  the  appreciation  of  that  one  loving,  noble  spirit ; 
but  she  could  not  control  herself  to  speak  words  so 
near  her  heart.  She  could  only  sob  out,  "I  —  I 
don't  mind  it  much.  I'm  a  little  overtasked  just 
now ;  but  I  don't  care  for  it.  I  don't  know  why  I 
cry  about  it.  I  am  sure  I  didn't  mean  to.  It's  so 
much  learned,  if  there's  nothing  gained.  So  don't 
let's  think  any  more  about  it." 

"  That's  the  best  way,"  said  her  father. 

"Can't  anything  be  done,  father,"  asked  Mrs. 
Hart,  "to  make  those  stage  managers  feel  how 
meanly  they've  acted  towards  our  Gail  ?  " 

"Never  mind  it  now,  mother,"  pleaded  Gail, 
pressing  her  hands  tightly  together  under  her 
shawl,  as  if  to  draw  the  pain  from  her  heart. 
"  Come,  Jennie,  let's  you  and  I  go  to  bed.  We'll 
feel  more  jolly  in  the  morning,  I  dare  say,  and  I 
won't  act  quite  so  silly." 

Jennie,  who  had  been  walking  up  and  down  the 
room,  with  a  strange  bright  light  in  her  eyes,  very 
different  from  the  trouble  in  the  faces  of  the  others, 
came  quickly. 


AN   EPISODE.  147 

"We  sfran't  need  any  light  to-night,"  continued 
Gail,  anxious  to  conceal  the  emotion  she  could  not 
suppress. 

"  No,"  replied  Jennie. 

The  sisters  crept  into  bed  in  the  dark,  and  the 
night  wore  on.  Gail  lay  still,  pretending  to  be 
asleep ;  but  she  was  feverish,  and  her  brain  throbbed 
unceasingly  under  her  closed  lids.  Nor  could  Jen- 
nie have  been  asleep,  for  her  wide-open  blue  eyes 
looked  towards  the  window  at  the  stars.  Once 
she  passed  her  hand  gently  across  her  sister's  face. 
There  were  fresh  tears  in  the  eyes,  and  the  lips 
were  parched. 

"  Asleep,  Gail  ?  "  she  whispered. 

"Not  just  now,  Jennie,"  answered  Gail. 

Jennie  was  quiet.     She  was  still  doubtful. 

By  and  by  she  repeated  her  inquiry  more  hope- 
fully. 

Gail,  without  moving,  replied  as  before. 

"  I've  thought  what  we  can  do,  Gail,"  cried  Jen- 
nie, rising  up  in  bed  to  clap  her  hands  exultingly. 
"We  can  hire  a  theatre.  You  get  together  all 
your  favorite  plays,  and  practise  them  up." 

"Go  to  sleep,  Jennie,"  replied  Gail,  trying  to 
smile ;  "  or  rather,  wake  up.  You're  dreaming,  and 
that  makes  the  thing  seem  reasonable  to  you." 

"No   such    thing,"   said    Jennie,    emphatically. 


148  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"I've  planned  everything  out  in  iny'own  mind, 
and  I  know  just  what  to  do;  onlyx  of  course,  it 
will  take  time.  But  no  matter  —  you'll  see.  I'd 
rather  have  got  things  all  ready,  and  made  the 
scheme  speak  for  itself.  But  I  thought  I'd  say  a 
little  about  it  to-night,  to  comfort  you." 

Gail  drew  Jennie's  hand  to  her  lips,  and  kissed 
it ;  and  the  sisters  said  no  more  until  morning. 


SCENES   IN   THE   DKESSING-ROOMS.  149 


CHAPTER  VI. 

SCENES   IN    THE    DRESSING-BOOMS. 

Miss  FANNY  CEELEMS  stood  before  the  glass 
dressing  for  Juliet.  Mrs.  H.  D.  Leamingston  and 
Mrs.  Maria  Latell  were  occupied  in  the  same  man- 
ner, for  the  respective  roles  of  the  Nurse  and  Lady 
Capulet. 

Miss  Digby,  the  dresser,  was  in  attendance. 

"  "What  takes  my  fancy,"  said  Miss  Ceelems, 
'haughtily,  "is  the  impertinence  of  the  thing.  "Would 
you  believe  it,  they  say  she  came  up  here  to  the 
theatre,  and  dressed  for  the  part  —  actually  dressed 
for  the  part.  My  God  ! "  —  N.  B.  This  expres- 
sion is  uttered  by  the  ladies  of  the  theatre  rather 
as  a  light  ejaculation  of  astonishment,  than  as  an 
oath.  —  "I  never  was  so  treated  before.  I  suppose 
some  one  will  be  asking  for  my  eyes  next." 

"  Or  your  hand,  my  dear,  and  your  heart,"  re- 
sponded the  Nurse,  wittily. 

"  Dear !  dear !  dear !  My  senses,  will  you  hear 
that  woman  talk  ?  "  murmured  Miss  Ceelems. 

"What  did  Lennox  say  for  himself,  my  dear ?" 
inquired  Lady  Capulet. 


150  BEHIND   THE    SCENES. 

Miss  Ceelems  smiled  aside  with  secret  satisfac- 
tion, but  answered  in  the  same  tone.  "  O,  he 
apologized  ;  said  he- judged  by  my  note  to  a  certain 
brute  —  who  shall  be  nameless  —  that  I  would  not 
be  able  to  rehearse,  and  that  he  hadn't  any  inten- 
tion of  letting  the  girl  do  more  than  go  on  in  the 
morning,  and  that  only  to  gratify  her.  It  seems 
she  is  ambitious  for  the  profession.  A  ballet  girl ! 
The  idea!  She  teased  Lennox  into  letting  her 
rehearse,  as  she  "said,  by  way  of  a  little  practice. 
Poor  Tommy  can't  say  no.  You  know  he's  as  ten- 
der-hearted as  a  baby." 

"  Poor  Tommy  can  say  no  when  he  has  a  mind 
to,"  muttered  the  dresser  aside.  She  had  enter- 
tained desires  concerning  the  stage  herself,  and 
probably  knew. 

"The  whole  affair  was  a  ridiculous  farce  from 
beginning  to  end,"  drawled  Lady  Capulet.  "  I  reelly 
felt  for  the  poor  geirl.  She  tried  hard;  buj  you 
know  what  the  part  is,  and  what  the  stage  is.  It 
was  fearful :  in  the  first  place,  she  couldn't  be  heard 
two  feet  off;  and  then  she  had  stage  fright,  so  that 
Seely  had  to  give  her  the  word  constantly ;  and  to 
cap  the  climax,  she  comes  up  at  night  to  play." 

"  Stage  fright  at  rehearsal !  Well,  well,"  said  Miss 
Ceelems,  laughing. 

"  O,  now,  my  dears,  you  shouldn't  speak  like 


SCENES    IN   THE    DRESSING-ROOMS.  151 

that ;  you  know  she's  a  novice,"  replied  Lady  Cap- 
ulet. 

"  And  that  will  account  for  any  crime  short  of 
murder,"  thought  Miss  Digby. 

Miss  Ceelems  contemplated  the  lovely  picture  in 
the  glass  before  her,  and  sighed  luxuriously.  "If  a 
woman  knows  what's  good  for  herself,  she'll  keep 
out  of  the  profession.  You  do  not  know,  my  dears, 
how  I  pine  for  the  seclusion  of  private  life ;  all  this 
glitter  and  vanity  palls  upon  the  senses ;  but,  then, 
the  public,  my  dear,  you  know,  the  public ! " 

The  Nurse  and  Lady  Capulet  sighed  also,  and 
intimated  their  acquaintance  with  the  public. 

Miss  Ceelems  powdered  her  face  complacently. 
"And  so,  after  making  a  total  failure,  she  would 
have  gone  on  at  night,  in  Shakespeare,  too !  Well, 
the  blind  conceit  of  some  people  is  refreshing.  If 
it  wasn't  for  the  ridiculousness  of  it,  I  should  be 
half  inclined  to  be  angry." 

"  Well,  now,  I  don't  know  that  I  should,  my  dear, 
at  a  thing  like  that,"  said  the  Nurse.  "  Now,  I'm 
peculiar  in  such  matters.  I  feel,  with  Miss  Latell, 
really  sorry  for  the  poor  girl.  —  Drop  that  lace  a 
little  lower,  Digby ;  it  looks  hunchy.  —  She  is  not 
wholly  without  talent,  either.  I  think,  if  Lennox 
were  to  put  her  into  little  business  for  a  season  or 
two,  she  might  do  very  well  in  the  profession  ;  now 


152 


BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 


I  really  dp.  You  recollect  what  a  stick  poor  Le- 
wellansy  was  when  she  first  went  on  the  stage." 

"  Those  legs ! "  said  Miss  Ceelems  —  "  fearful ! " 

"  That  neck ! "  said  the  Nurse,  surveying  her  own 
plump  figure. 

"  I  don't  see  what  on  earth  the  woman  wanted 
to  enter  the  profession  at  all  for  with  such  a  neck." 

"  I  don't  see  that  she  would  want  to  enter  it 
without  it,"  thought  Miss  Digby. 

""Well,  now,  it's  my  opinion,"  continued  the 
Nurse,  "and  I've  always  said —  O  my  God,  Dig- 
by,  child,  you  ran  that  pin  clear  into  me;  what 
do  you  think  I'm  made  of?" 

"And  yet,"  said  Lady  Capulet,  who  was  a  very 
thin  person,  "  the  papers  all  speak  well  of  her.  It 
shows  what  perseverance  can  do  for  a  woman.  She 
isn't  as  slender  now  as  she  used  to  be." 

"Isn't  it  getting  late,  Digby,  dear?"  inquired 
the  Nurse. 

"I'm  getting  awfully  nervous.  Do  see  if  you 
can't  lace  my  dress  a  little  tighter.  I'm  so  — 
There,  that's  better.  Now,  if  you'll  only  just  pin 
those  bows  on." 

"Miss  Hart  is  not  too  thin,  I'm  sure,"  sug- 
gested Digby. 

"Did  you  dress  her,  my  dear?"  inquired  the 
three  ladies  at  once. 


SCENES    IN    THE   DRESSING-ROOMS.  153 

"  Me  !  O,  no !  she  didn't  call.  Besides,  I  don't 
take  charge  of  the  other  side  of  the  building; 
that's  Howe's  business,  when  it's  anybody's." 

"  I  felt  some  curiosity  to  hear  what  she  would 
say  for  herself;  that's  all,"  said  Miss  Ceelems. 
"  It's  ridiculous  business,  and  I  can't  help  but  laugh 
at  it  now,  though  I'll  own  I  was  a  little  angry  at 
first ;  for  it  really  did  seem  hard  on  the  ladies  of 
our  own  company  to  put  some  one  else  up  at  re- 
hearsal, and  then  call  on  one  of  them  at  the  last 
moment.  For  my  own  part,  I'm  quick  to  get 
angry;  but  I  get  over  it  quick." 

"  It  would  have  been  Miss  Steel's  business  to 
have  gone  on  for  the  part  in  the  absence  of  Mrs. 
Wells,"  said  Lady  Capulet.  "  Steely  told  me  this 
morning  that  she  was  willing  to  go  on ;  but  she 
thought  it  no  more  than  fair  that  she  should  be 
called  to  rehearsal.  It's  really  fortunate  you  re- 
covered in  time." 

"  I  ought  not  to  have  come  out,"  said  Miss  Cee- 
lems, which  was  quite  true.  "  Mother  said  to  me, 
when  I  told  her  my  intentions, '  Why,  Fanny,  you 
are  crazy  to  think  of  such  a  thing ! '  But  there,  I 
thought  Mr.  Lennox  will  be  so  annoyed!  and  I 
can't  bear  to  think  of  giving  any  one  trouble,  and 
Mr.  Lennox  is  a  man  I  respect  highly.  He's  al- 
ways been  a  perfect  gentleman  in  his  manners  to- 
ward me.  I  will  say  —  " 


154  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"Juliet,  Nurse,  Lady  Capulet,  ready  for  the 
act,"  shouted  the  call-boy,  with  a  loud  knock  at 
the  door. 

"  O,  my  God,  I  shall  be  late ! "  exclaimed  Miss 
Ceelems  in  consternation.  "I  didn't  hear  the 
orchestra  rung  in,  and  I'm  discovered  in  the  — 
For  God's  sake,  Digby,  fasten  my  belt  quick,  and 
don't  go  to  sticking  any  of  your  pins  into  me. 
That  call-boy !  I  mean  to  complain  to  the  manage- 
ment about  him.  He  gets  worse  and  worse.  O 
God,  Digby,  you're  so  awkward,  you  make  a  pos- 
itive fright  of  me.  There,  now !  Where  are  my 
jewels?  Not  ready,  I  dare  —  " 

"  There's  no  hurry,  my  child,"  said  the  Nurse,  in 
a  great  fluster.  "  The  first  scene's  not  on  yet ;  be- 
sides—  Digby,  you  must  really  attend  to  me  a 
half  second.  We're  all  on  together,  and  —  I  am 
so  stout  I  lose  breath.  Not  that,  child ;  you'll  ruin 
me;  the  other  body  —  the  red  one,  of  course. 
Now,  then,  attend  to  the  lady,  and  be  quick. 
Maria,  dear,  are  you  most  ready?" 
.  Lady  C.,  who,  being  in  following  business,  did 
not  interrupt  the  leaders  in  their  calls  upon  the 
dresser,  answered,  in  a  frenzy,  "No,  I  am  not; 
but  I  should  be  if  I  could  only  get  this  darned 
brooch  to  stay  clasped.  I  believe  that  style  of 
brooch  is  the  very  devil  incarnate  for  mischief; 


SCENES   IN    THE   DKESSING-KOOMS.  155 

they  never  will  work,  do  what  you  will.  I  should 
have  been  —  " 

The  prompter's  whistle  sounded  at  this  moment. 

"  My  God,  that's  us ! "  exclaimed  the  ladies  in 
concert ;  and  the  peculiar  trio  made  a  precipitate 
dive  for  the  stage. 

During  this  little'  dialogue  the  following  scene 
took  place  in  the  manager's  office:  Thomas  Len- 
nox was  seated  before  his  office  table,  with  the 
usual  amount  of  papers  before  him,  and  with  his 
usual  cigar  in  his  mouth. 

Henry  Seely,  prompter,  also  seated  at  the  table, 
was  engaged  —  to  judge  by  appearance  —  in  men- 
tally hushing  up  the  proscenium,  that  being  the 
only  object  within  his  optical  range. 

Marcus  Dalton  stood  in  the  doorway,  his  face 
flushed  with  angry  excitement,  and  perhaps  with 
something  else.  Marcus  had  but  just  entered.  He 
was  the  stout  gentleman  whom  Gail  had  seen  with 
the  manager  at  the  morning's  rehearsal. 

"  What's  this  I  hear,  Tom  ? "  muttered  Marcus, 
sulkily.  "What  have  you  done  with  that  smart 
girl  you  showed  me  this  morning?" 

Lennox  glanced  at  the  prompter,  and  continued 
his  writing. 

"  We  are  happily  released  from  our  embarrass- 
ment in  that  quarter,"  replied  the  gentleman 


156  .       BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

referred  to,  shuffling  in  his  chair,  and  looking  any- 
thing but  happy  or  unembarrassed.  "  The  lady 
resumes  her  own  part." 

"  By  George ! "  exclaimed  Marcus,  loudly,  —  so 
loudly  that  the  prompter  involuntarily  raised  his 
hand,  —  " what's  that  for?" 

"  I'm  sorry,  sir,"  pleaded  the  prompter,  meekly. 
"If  we  could  have  known  you  had  taken  a  fancy 
to  seeing  the  lady  play  —  or  perhaps  you  have  some 
interest  in  introducing  the  lady  before  the  public  — 
knew  her  father  when  you  was  a  boy,  or  something 
of  that  sort  —  of  course,  you  know,  we  couldn't 
judge  the  matter  by  instinct." 

"Damn  instinct,"  growled  Marcus.  "I'd  made 
up  my  mind  to  see  the  girl  play.  I've  bet  on  her 
against  Ceelems  in  the  part,  my  two  hundred  to 
Dick  Harben's  one,  and  by  George,  sir,  she'd  have 
carried  the  day  without  a  cent  out  for  pulfs ; "  and 
Marcus  again  startled  .the  nervous  prompter  by 
bringing  his  fist  down  upon  the  manager's  table 
with  a  bang. 

"The  poor  fellow's  as  drunk  as  a  ,  and 

gone  dead  crazy  over  the  lady,  besides," .  thought 
the  prompter,  helplessly.  He  said,  propitiatorily, 
"  Really,  now,  my  dear  sir,  if  you'll  only  listen  to 
reason.  The  part  belonged  to  the  lady,  our  lady,  if 
she  chose  to  play  it.  So  what  were  we  to  do? 


SCENES   IN    THE    DRESSING-ROOMS.  157 

There'd  have  been  the  deuce  and  all  to  pay,  if  we 
had  offended  her.  My  God,  sir,  we'd  have  had  the 
papers  down  upon  us  like  bricks.  The  lady  pleases 
with  the  public,  you  know." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  who's  to  be  pleased  in 
this  place  if  I  am  not,"  muttered  Marcus.  "  Damn ! 
you've  always  found  my  purse  strings  open  when 
there's  been  any  go  on  foot  here.  Where  is  the 
lady?" 

"  Which  lady  do  you  mean,  sir  ? "  said  the 
prompter,  nervously  :  "  Miss  Hart  ?  She  is  not  in 
the  building.  Besides,  consider,  Mr.  Harben  favors 
the  other  lady.  She  came  here  at  his  request, 
and  his  son  Dick  is"  awfully  smashed  on  her,  you 
know." 

"  Who's  to  be  pleased,  if  I  am  not  ? "  repeated 
Marcus,  angrily. 

"  Well,  but,  my  dear  sir,  I  don't  know  that 
anybody  is,"  pleaded  the  prompter;  adding,  aside, 
"  the  gentleman  is  fearfully  noisy  in  his  cups." 

"Where's  Martin?  Send  him  for  the  lady," 
exclaimed  Marcus. 

"  O,  my  God  !  you're  wild,  my  dear  sir.  You'll 
ruin  us,"  cried  the  prompter,  in  alarm.  "The 
overture  will  be  rung  in  in  less  than  ten  minutes, 
and  the  other  lady  is  already  dressed  for  the 
piece." 


158  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"  Come,  Dalton,"  said  Lennox, "  where's  the  sense 
of  quarrelling  over  this  business?  I'm  the  girl's 
friend  as  much  as  you  are,  and  I'm  the  friend  of  the 
theatre  too.  No  man  can  say  I  haven't  done  my 
share  in  its  interest.  A  first  appearance,  under  the 
circumstances  of  to-night,  would  have  done  the 
girl  no  good,  and  you'd  have  lost  your  money.  By 
George,  you  must  heat  the  iron  before  you  can 
strike  while  it  is  hot.  The  public  don't  swallow 
new -things  till  they've  been  warmed  up  for  them 
with  a  little  blowing  —  " 

The  manager  was  here  interrupted  by  the  en- 
trance of  a  young  man,  who  stood  bowing  in  the 
doorway,  looking  exceedingly  embarrassed.  He 
was  evidently  an  outsider,  and  it  was  equally  evi- 
dent that  he  wished  to  appear  otherwise. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Lennox.  You  see  I  have 
taken  you  at  your  word,  and  dropped  in  upon  you." 

"Aha!  Mr.  Harben,"  returned  the  manager. 
"  Happy,  I'm  sure."  As  a  dead  silence  followed,  in 
which  Mi'.  Harben  blushed  deeply,  and  pretended 
to  be  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  a  side  wing, 
Lennox  remarked,  "  Like  to  look  about  the  place 
some  ?  I  shall  be  at  leisure  in  a  few  moments." 

"  O,  deuce,  no,"  answered  Richard  Harben,  has- 
tily. He  was  secretly  ambitious  to  become  a  fast 
man.  "  I'm  used  to  the  place ;  that  is,  I'm  quite 
familiar  with  such  places,  in  general." 


SCENES    IN    THE    DRESSING-BOOMS.  159 

"  I'll  take  my  oath  you  are,"  responded  the  man- 
ager, who  seemed  willing  to  humor  him. 

Dick  became  conceited  and  confident  immedi- 
ately. 

"  By  Jove,"  he  cried,  "  the  governor  draws  it  so 
hard  on  a  fellow  that  a  fellow  can't  look  at  a  pretty 
woman  without  being  brought  to  account  for  it ; 
and,  by  George,  it  tells  on  a  fellow's  finances ;  but 
I  can't  quite  go  harness."  This  was  a  choice  ex- 
pression Richard  had  borrowed  from  his  patron, 
Dalton.  "  So,  while  he  thinks  I'm  fast  asleep  in 
New  York,  I  steal  a  march  upon  him,  and  here  I 
am.  Do  you  take  ?  " 

The  manager  laughed,  somewhat  lazily,  to  indi- 
cate his  intelligence.  "  What  are  you  doing  now  ?  " 
he  asked,  paring  his  nails.  "  Step  in,"  he  added,  a 
moment  after,  smartly ;  for  what  Dick  appeared  to 
be  doing  just  at  present  was  getting  in  the  way  of 
the  property-man.  "  Still  in  a  counting-house  ?  " 

"  By  Jove,  yes ;  boxed  down  as  tight  as,  —  I 
don't  know  what.  But  I'm  not  your  sort  for  that. 
Does  for  a  blinder,  though,  for  the  governor,  fa- 
mously ;  and  the  old  horse  is  pretty  sharp,  too. 
But  luck's  against  me  to-night.  The  charming 
Fanny  Ceelems  fails  to  appear." 

"  O,  the  lady  plays,"  said  Lennox,  suppressing  a 
yawn. 


160  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

Richard  blushed  still  more  deeply. 

"  You're  doubly  in  luck.  You'd  have  lost  your 
bet  if  she  had  not  appeared,"  growled  Dalton. 

"I  don't  see  it  in  that  light,"  said  Richard, 
getting  bolder.  "Do  you,  Tom?" 

"Who  were  to  be  the  judges?"  inquired  the 
manager. 

"  O,  good  fellows ;  men  of  our  own  sort,  and  men 
that  know  what's  what,"  said  Richard;  at  which 
Dalton  laughed  so  loudly  and  unexpectedly,  that 
the  prompter,  who  had  been  walking  up  and  down 
the  side  stage, — divided  between  his  deference  for 
the  manager's  party  and  his  nervousness  at  having 
the  play,  which  had  commenced,  disturbed,  —  mut- 
tered, "  My  God,  gentlemen,  you'd  drown  the  big 
drum."  The  conversation  was  again  interrupted 
by  the  presence  of  the  Friar,  who  stole  solemnly  in 
upon  the  worldly  party,  and  there  ensued  a  whis- 
pered dialogue  between  him  and  the  manager. 


THE  MAGIC   OF   THE   KOBE.  161 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE   MAGIC   OF    THE   ROSE. 

WHEN  the  morning  came,  the  sunlight  crept 
pleasantly  into  the  room  where  the  sisters  lay 
asleep,  and  touched  their  faces.  The  touch  pained 
Gail,  and  she  turned  away  from  it  fretfully.  She 
had  suffered  through  the  night,  and  her  suffering 
was  not  yet  over.  Jennie  met  it  hopefully.  She 
could  begin  to  act  on  her  new  idea,  and  she  sprang 
blithely  up,  and  was  soon  busy  preparing  the  break- 
fast with  her  hands,  while  her  head  was  at  work 
over  her  plans.  Gail  rose  also,  but  slowly;  her 
heart  was  heavy,  and  less  tossed  by  conflicting 
emotions,  she  felt  more  keenly  the  cruel  ache  of 
her  disappointment.  There  had  arisen  in  her  also 
a  stern  contempt  of  dishonesty.  She  no  longer 
faced  the  invisible  demons  that  racked  her  soul 
with  any  weak  pretence  of  indifference  or  wild 
dreams  of  impossible  triumph.  She  faced  the 
truth  instead,  and  wore  her  trouble  with  a  pride 
too  great  for  vanity.  She  shrank  only  from  the 
cure.  She  already  began  to  realize  the  old  sad 
11 


162  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

story  of  dragging  a  sick  heart  through  a  daily 
round  of  duties  it  is  for  the  time  unfit  to  meet. 
She  lingered  over  the  arranging  of  her  room, 
dreading  to  meet  the  family  down  stairs.  "  I  hope 
they  will  not  say  much  to  comfort  me,"  thought 
the  poor  girl,  as  she  dusted  the  table  for  the  third 
time.  "  It  would  upset  me,  I  know."  She  looked 
about,  and  saw  nothing  to  be  done  except  once 
more  to  wash  the  traces  of  tears  from  her  eyes. 
She  did  this  carefully,  shivering  the  while,  for  the 
room  was  cold,  although  she  had  been  unconscious 
of  it.  At  the  head  of  the  Stan's  she  paused,  and 
listened.  The  house  was  still.  She  could  hear  only 
the  old  clock  in  the  hall,  ticking  with  a  hollow  rat- 
tle in  its  throat.  She  glanced  from  the  soiled 
house-paper  to  the  worn  stair-covering.  Sights 
that  never  depressed  her  before,  but  which  even 
glowed  through  the  romance  of  a  new  life  ahead, 
now  made  her  sick  at  heart.  At  the  foot  of  the 
stairs,  her  eyes  fell  on  the  basket  containing  the 
costume  for  Juliet.  She  descended  quickly,  and 
returned  with  it  to  her  room.  The  dress  she  had 
handled  so  affectionately  the  night  before,  she 
snatched  out  of  the  basket,  and  hurried  it  to  its 
place.  The  white  slippers  came  next,  and  the  jew- 
els "  They  shan't  see  these  things,"  she  said,  "  and 
be  reminded  of  last  night."  She  worked  rapidly 


THE   MAGIC   OF   THE   BOSE.  163 

to  keep  down  the  rising  sobs;  she  even  tried  to 
jest.  "  One  would  think,  to  see  me,  that  I  had  com- 
mitted a  murder,  and  was  trying  to  hide  the  body." 
Two  tears  stood  in  her  eyes.  Through  them  she 
saw  her  roses  blurred  and  swelled.  She  paused,  in 
her  hurry,  to  gather  up  their  withered  leaves  ten- 
derly, and  take  from  her  bureau  drawer  a  small 
box.  The  box  contained  but  one  other  treasure  — 
a  ring  of  silver  hair.  She  laid  the  white  rose  and 
the  gray  together,  and  returned  the  box  to  its  place. 
Perhaps  at  that  moment  the  soul  of  the  buried 
roses  bloomed  in  her  heart ;  for  when  at  length  she 
resumed  her  duties,  the  objects  in  her  home  no 
longer  sickened  her,  or  seemed  commonplace.  She 
descended  to  the  kitchen,  where  she  found  Jennie, 
with1  her  sleeves  rolled  up$  a  rolling-pin  in  her 
hand,  and  a  layer  of  dough  before  her.  Jennie  was 
not  rolling  the  dough.  She  was  looking  into  the 
future  with  the  same  bright  absent  expression  her 
face  had  worn  the  night  before. 

"  How  early  we  both  got  up,  Jennie ! "  said  Gail, 
trying  to  speak  as  if  nothing  had  gone  amiss. 

It  took  a  little  time  for  Jennie's  mind  to  come 
back  into  the  present ;  but  when  it  did  she  showed 
a  very  lively  interest  in  the  things  about  them. 

"  Sure  enough,  Gail !  I  have  had  things  ready 
for  breakfast  this  long  time,  and  now  I've  started 


164  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

on  dinner ;  and  I  don't  know  as  there's  any  one  up 
but  you  and  I  yet." 

Gail  joined  Jennie  in  her  household  occupations, 
and  both  sisters  began  to  talk,  each  avoiding  the  top- 
ic that  was  in  both  their  minds.  Jennie  was  not  un- 
conscious that  at  times  her  sister  would  forget  what 
she  was  about,  and  at  times  work  with  a  feverish 
intensity.  Poor  Jennie  longed  to  comfort  her,  and 
once  or  twice  thought  of  again  broaching  the  sub- 
ject of  her  scheme ;  but  Gail  had  so  little  faith  in 
it,  that  Jennie  did  not  venture.  The  sisters  had 
not  spoken  for  some  time,  when  Gail  said,  with  sad 
sternness,  — 

"Jennie,  I  wish  you  would  let  me  do  all  the 
work  till  it  is  time  for  me  to  go  to  the  theatre." 

"  I  would  not  go  to«that  theatre  again,  Gail,  if  I 
was  you,"  said  Mrs.  Hart,  entering  in  time  to  hear 
her  daughter's  words. 

"I  must,  mother;  there  is  one  more  perform- 
ance of  the  show-piece." 

"I  don't  see  why  you  must  on  that  account," 
returned  Mrs.  Hart,  warmly.  "Gail,  you've  got 
genius,  and  all  that,  but  you're  dreadfdlty  simple. 
Now,  if  I  was  in  your  place,  I'd  stay  away  just  to 
spite  'em.  I  would  not  let  myself  be  triumphed 
over  by  a  parcel  of  beetle-headed  dragons,"  said 
Mrs.  Hart,  pausing  for  a  name  sufficiently  opprobri- 


THE   MAGIC   OF    THE    ROSE.  165 

ous.  "  They've  behaved  dishonorably  towards  you. 
Your  own^  father  says  they  have;  and  I  wouldn't 
be  so  mean-spirited  as  to  go  near  them." 

"  It  would  be  unprincipled  not  to  go,"  answered 
Gail,  trembling  a  little  with  indignation ;  "  and  that 
would  be  like  them." 

"  Nonsense ! "  said  Mrs.  Hart,  emphatically. 
"That  shows  how  little  you  know  about  it.  It 
would  be  unprincipled  to  go,"  she  added,  in  a  tone 
"as  if  she  had  clenched  the  matter  with  the  strongest 
argument.  "  Well,  Gail,  before  I'd  go  among  such 
a  lot  of  mean  stuck-ups !  I'd  think  more  of  my 
mother,  if  nothing  else.  Why,  Gail,  they'll  laugh 
at  you  in  their  sleeves." 

"  I  know  it,  mother,"  answered  Gail,  bitterly. 

"  Besides,"  went  on  Mrs.  Hart,  "  I'd  play  only  the 
leading  parts.  I  don't  see  why  you  don't,  I'm  sure. 
You're  better  able  than  any  of  the  women  they've 
got  there ;  for,  between  you  and  me,  I  don't  think 
much  of  those  play-actresses.  Now,  I  know  ;  for 
I've  taken  notice.  I  wonder  at  your  letting  your- 
self be  put  down  so.  If  I  was  you,  I'd  show  those 
stage  managers  that  I  felt  myself  above  them.  I'd 
make  them  feel  what  they've  done." 

"  I've  struggled  against  such  thoughts  all  night," 
answered  poor  Gail,  bending  her  face  close  over 
her  work  to  hide  her  anguish. 


166  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"I  shouldn't  mind  it  a  bit,"  put  in  Jennie. 
"  You've  done  nothing  wrong.  It's  they  ought  to 
feel  ill  at  ease  to  see  you." 

Gail  bit  her  lip  proudly,  and  went  on  with  her 
work  in  silence.  As  it  drew  near  the  time  for  the 
theatre,  she  glanced  at  the  clock  every  few  min- 
utes. Its  hands  went  slowly  round  to  the  fatal 
hour.  It  was  an  old  clock,  with  a  harsh  bell ;  and 
Gail's  heart  turned  sick  at  every  blow  it  struck. 
Still,  she  wrapped  her  shawl  about  her,  and  started 
for  the  theatre  without  flinching,  sternly  contemptu- 
ous of  the  painful  beating  of  her  own  heart.  Her 
imagination,  excited  as  it  was  by  trouble,  pictured 
an  ordeal  awaiting  her  that  was  little  less  than  tor- 
ture. She  pushed  the  old  door  open,  and  entered. 
She  heard  it  swing  back  harshly  on  its  rusty  hinges, 
as  it  had  done  the  first  time.  It  no  longer  grudged 
her  admittance  —  it  mocked  her.  She  saw  the  one 
gas  flame  absorbing  and  corrupting  the  white  light 
from  above.  It  seemed  to  fall  on  the  ghastly  face 
of  the  dead  past.  She  shuddered.  The  place  was 
empty  and  desolate.  The  old  wail  of  the  tuning 
instruments  under  the  stage  seemed  to  wind  itself 
about  her  heart  like  chords  from  the  infernal 
region,  charming  her  into  a  death-like  sleep.  She 
was  faint  and  stifled.  She  groped  her  way  dizzily 
upon  the  stage.  An  ugly  canvas  monster  leered 


THE   MAGIC   OP    THE    ROSE.  167 

at  her  with  its  meaningless  painted  eyes.  She 
leaned  for  an  instant  against  one  of  the  scenes,  and 
her  hold  on  the  identity  of  the  place  gave  way. 
She  was  in  the  tomb  of  th«  Capulets.  Her  dead 
hopes  were  the  "yellow,  capless  skulls,  and  rat- 
tling bones."  She  made  an  effort  to  step.  Dark- 
ness gathered  about  her.  She  felt  something  like 
a  slight  touch  against  her  forehead.  Then  there 
was  nothing. 

When  Gail  opened  her  eyes,  she  wondered,  for 
an  instant,  why  she  should  see  before  her  the  heavy 
green  curtain  of  the  theatre,  instead  of  the  famil- 
iar objects  of  her  room.  To  her  confused  senses 
she  seemed  to  have  been  unconscious  for  hours,  in- 
stead of  one  brief  second.  She  rose,  and  hastened 
to  her  dressing-room.  The  swoon  had  wrought  a 
change.  Beyond  the  thought  of  concealing  her 
sudden  illness,  she  experienced  only  weariness  —  a 
very  incapacity  for  further  mental  suffering.  She 
entered  her  room,  as  she  thought,  quietly  and  in 
her  usual  manner.  There  followed  a  hush.  One 
of  the  ladies  said,  kindly,  « You  are  not  well,  Miss 
Hart ;  you  are  faint." 

Gail  started,  but  commanded  herself  to  answer, 
"  Not  now.  I  was  a  moment  ago." 

"She  looks  downright  ill,"  said  several  of  the 
ladies ;  and  one  of  them  added,  — 


168  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"  It's  a  shame  to.  have  to  come  up  here  when  one 
is  not  well.  I  know  what  it  is  myself." 

"  Have  some  of  this,"  said  all  the  ladies,  present- 
ing bottles  to  Gail.  "It's  good  for  faint  turns," 
urged  the  lady  who  had  first  spoken.  "I'm  sub- 
ject to  them  myself,  and  I  know,  poor  child ! " 

"  So  am  I,"  sighed  another  lady.  "  We  all  are 
in  this  world." 

"  It's  the  'urrying  up  to  be  in  time,"  said  Mrs. 
Sands,  delicately  ignoring  what  she  guessed  to  be 
the  real  cause  of  Gail's  illness.  "  Gals,  it's  taken 
me  that  way  many  and  many's  the  time.  First 
I'm  flustered;  then,  slap,  I'm  gone.  It's  'orrid!" 

"I'll  go  off  at  just  nothing  at  all,"  said  quite  a 
stout  lady,  "  although  you  wouldn't  think  it." 

Each  lady  tendered  her  services  to  Gail,  and  all 
refrained  from  asking  questions,  much  to  her  relief. 
"  I  don't  wonder  I  alarmed  you ;  for  I  see  I  look 
worse  than  I  feel."  She  was  looking  at  her  own 
face  in  the  glass,  for  the  first  time  since  she  had 
dressed  for  Juliet,  the  night  before. 

"And  no  wonder,"  said  Mrs.  Sands,  sympa- 
thetically. "What,  with  the  'urry  and  the  'eat 
of  the  room,  it  will  be  a  wonder  if  you  hain't 
hill." 

There  was  some  need  of  haste  in  dressing,  Gail 
found,  when  she  consulted  her  watch.  She  was 


THE    MAGIC   OF    THE    ROSE.  169 

glad  of  this;  for  it  occupied  her  time,  and  di- 
verted from  her  the  attention  of  the  ladies. 

It  became  time  for  the  rising  of  the  curtain. 
Gail  descended  with  the  rest  to  the  stage,  and 
with  them  went  through  the  weary  routine  of  the 
scenes.  When  her  services  were  not  required,  she 
crept  to  her  old  place  at  the  foot  of  the  dressing- 
room  stairs,' and  leaned  her  head  against  the  cool 
bricks  of  the  building. 

At  times  she  fell  into  half-unconscious  fits,  and 
listened  dreamily  to  the  old  play.  It  seemed  to 
be  slipping  away  from  her,  and  she  seemed  to 
be  slipping  away  from  herself.  The  familiar  voices 
on  the  stage  sounded  hollow  in  the  half-empty 
house,  and  were  mocked  by  a  dreary  echo.  A 
large  detachment  of  the  supernumerary  force  had 
been  dismissed.  There  was  no  ordeal.  The  ac- 
tors with  whom  she  had  rehearsed  in  Romeo  and 
Juliet  accepted  her  presence  as  a  matter  of  course. 
Lennox  was  absent,  and  the  prompter  kept  his 
eyes  on  his  book.  There  seemed  no  enchantment 
now  about  the  place.  It  was  real  life,  lonely, 
cold,  and  dull.  Gail  drew  her  little  shawl  closer 
about  her.  She  could  hardly  believe  herself  in-  a 
real  theatre.  It  would  have  seemed  like  some  of 
the  old  attempts  at  making  believe,  with  which 
she  used  to  cheat  the  hunger  of  her  heart  in  old 


170  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

times,  but  that  she  sat  spell-bound  while  it  passed 
her,  and  faded  from  her.  The  actors  hurried  the 
piece,  and  introduced  "  Gags."  They  had  no  re- 
spect for  the  dying  play,  that,  with  all  the  pain 
and  weariness  it  had  cost  her,  now  touched  Gail  as 
something  sacred.  She  would  lay  in  its  grave  so 
much  of  her  dreaming  youth.  To  the  others  it 
was  not  a  first  experience,  and  they  were  tired  of 
it.  Each  one,  as  he  or  she  came  off  the  stage, 
only  said,  languidly,  "My  God,  I  shall  be  glad 
when  this  show  business  is  over ! "  From  the 
green-room  window  a  stream  of  daylight  slanted 
down  upon  the  stage,  robbing  it  of  its  mystery  and 
romance.  The  painted  faces  of  the  actors  whi- 
tened or  turned  a  sickly  green  as  they  passed  across 
it.  The  strip  of  stage  behind  the  scenes,  where 
Gail  had  paced  so  often,  and  where  she  had  seen 
others  pace,  —  where  so  many  souls  had  dreamed, 
hoped,  aspired,  or  sorrowed,  —  became  changed  into 
a  very  "ghost's  walk."  Gail  watched  the  stout 
figure  of  a  Sea-king,  —  the  Friar  of  yesterday,  — 
who  had  possession  of  the  walk;  and  the  phan- 
toms of  all  her  past  dreams  and  emotions  went 
pacing  to  and  fro,  accompanying  the  ghostly  Friar 
on  his  solemn  march. 

The  prompter's  bell  sounded  for  the  last  act.    It 
roused  Gail  from  her  stupor.     She  realized,  at  that 


THE   MAGIC   OF    THE    ROSE.  171 

moment,  that  she  was  in  the  theatre  for  the  last 
time :  a  brief  hour,  and  all  would  be  over.  She 
would  witness  the  closing  of  the  grave  over  her 
dead  hopes.  Her  heart  sank  heavily,  and,  like  a 
drowning  thing,  caught  about  desperately  for  some 
straw.  The  fatal  minutes  passed  one  by  one. 
The  scenes  closed  one  by  one.  The  prompter's 
whistle  sounded  harsh  to  her  ears.  The  Friar  paced 
slowly  up  and  down  the  ghost's  walk.  Who  or 
what  was  there  to  hope  in  ?  She  raised  her  eyes ; 
they  met  those  of  the  Friar.  He  had  paused  in  his 
walk,  and  was  watching  her.  "You  like  the  pro- 
fession ?  "  he  said. 

"  Better  than  it  likes  me,"  answered  Gail,  trying 
to  smile. 

"You  would  like  to  enter  it?"  continued  the 
Friar. 

"  Yes." 

The  Friar  took  one  or  two  more  turns  on  the 
walk,  and  then  seated  himself  beside  Gail.  "I 
would  not  advise  one  of  my  own  daughters  to 
adopt  the  stage,"  he  said.  "It  is  a  hard  life,  par- 
ticularly for  a  young  girl  like  you,  not  born  in  the 
profession.  Still,  you  have  capacity  for  it,  and  if 
I  could  be  of  any  service  to  you,  I  should  be 
pleased.  I  spoke  with  Mr.  Lennox  last  night," 
—  Gail's  face  flushed,  and  her  very  heart  stopped 


172  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

beating  to  listen,  —  "  in  reference  to  your  appearing 
at  my  benefit.  I  can't  promise  you  much  from  it, 
and  I've  no  especial  influence  with  the  manage- 
ment ;  but  it  might  prove  an  opening  for  you  — 
at  any  rate,  it  would  be  practice." 

Saved  !  saved !  Th'e  thankful  tears  sprang  into 
Gail's  eyes;  if  she  had  dared,  she  would  have 
seized  the  Friar's  hand  and  kissed  it.  There  were 
no  longer  any  phantoms  on  the  ghost's  walk.  The 
Friar  had  blessed  her,  and  they  had  vanished.  The 
good  Friar  had  succored  Juliet. 

"•Unless,"  said  Gail,  too  much  moved  to  speak 
coherently,  "  you  have  striven  and  failed,  as  I  have, 
you  can  never  know  how  grateful  I  am  to  you,  for 
I  am  far  too  stupid  to  thank  you  appropriately." 

"No  occasion!  no  occasion,  my  child.  What 
little  I  can  do  I  shall  be  glad  to  do.  You  are  a 
good,  conscientious  student  in  the  art,  and  if  you 
persevere  in  the  right  course,  you  can  in  time 
take  a  high  rank.  I  am  not  so  sure  but  what  it  is 
I  who  ought  to  thank  you." 

"  I  am  sure  it  is  not,"  responded  Gail,  quickly. 

And  the  Friar,  well  pleased  with  himself  and 
Gail's  earnest  frankness,  resumed  his  walk. 

When  the  Friar  had  played  his  part  in  this  worthy 
manner,  the  Nurse  came  up,  and  played  hers  also 
worthily. 


THE   MAGIC   OF    THE   EOSE.  173 

"  You  seem  ill,  my  dear.  You  look  quite  pale. 
I  have  been  trying  to  get  a  chance  to  speak  to  you. 
I  would  not  wait  for  the  last  act,  my  dear.  I'd 
dress  and  go  home.  Mr.  Blowper,  the  stage  mana- 
ger, will  excuse  you  I  know.  He's  a  bit  rough  in 
his  way,  but  he's  not  a  hard  man.  I'll  speak  to 
him  for  you  if  you  wish  it  —  shall  I  ?  " 

"  O,  no ! "  answered  Gail,  whose  heart  was  be- 
ginning to  warm  her  cold  frame  wonderfully.  "  I'd 
rather  remain  till  the  piece  is  over." 

"  Would  you,  indeed,  my  dear  ?  "Well,  I  don't 
know  but  that  it  will  be  as  well,  the  piece  is  so 
nearly  through.  But,  really,  you  don't  look  well 
enough  to  walk  home ;  and  it  snows,  too.  I  ride 
to-night,  and  I  shall  be  happy  to  set  you  down  at 
your  own  door,  if  you  will  let  me." 

"  Thank  you  ;  it  will  not  be  necessary  to  trouble 
you." 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear ;  it  is  no  trouble.  I  should 
like  to  do  it.  I  shall  be  at  the  stage-door  —  now 
remember." 

The  Nurse  nodded  pleasantly,  and  retired  to  the 
wing  to  wait  her  cue. 

The  Friar  again  paused  before  Gail,  and  whis- 
pered, impressively,  "  Perhaps  it  will  be  as  well  to 
keep  the  matter  you  and  I  spoke  about  quiet.  It 
doesn't  do  in  a  place  like  this  to  say  all  you  know." 


174  BEHIND   THE    SCENES. 

Gail  assured  the  Friar  of  her  silence,  and  watched 
him  grope  his  way  down  the  theatre  cellar  stairs, 
into  submarine  depths,  from  which  he  was  shortly 
to  arise  as  the  Sea-king  in  a  sea  of  glass.  Then  she 
repaired  to  left  hand,  upper  entrance,  in  four,  pre- 
paratory to  soaring  into  aerial  regions.  She  viewed 
the  scene  passing  on  the  stage  now  with  a  grateful 
sense  of  security.  She  was  not  made  wildly,  blind- 
ly, passionately  happy,  as  she  had  been  by  her  first 
good  fortune.  She  experienced  a  quieter  sensa- 
tion, one  touched  with  tenderness,  for  the  resurrec- 
tion of  hope  from  the  grave  is  attended  with  more 
solemnity  of  the  soul  than  its  first  joyful  birth.  In 
her  suffering  she  had  striven  to  conquer  her  selfish- 
ness, and  was  strengthened  for  the  light,  as  she  had 
been  strengthened  for  the  darkness. 

The  other  ladies  were  also  gathered  in  the  wing, 
ready  for  the  scene.  Martin,  the  errand  boy  of  the 
box-office,  presented  himself  among  them. 

"  Which  of  you  gals  is  Miss  Hart  ?  "  he  cried,  in 
a  manner  as  if  this  very  commonplace  inquiry  was 
the  height  of  humor. 

"  Hush ! "  said  one  of  the  ladies,  soberly.  "  That's 
Miss  Hart."  Martin's  manner  immediately  toned 
down  into  the  respectful.  Gail's  dignity  of  char- 
acter had  begun  to  call  forth  this  instinctive  trib- 
ute of  respect  from  the  people  about  the  place. 


THE   MAGIC   OF   THE   ROSE.  175 

Martin  handed  her  a  letter.  She  accepted  it  with 
some  curiosity,  but  placed  it  in  her  bosom  till  she 
should  be  at  leisure  to  open  it. 

The  play  over,  she  found  the  Nurse  waiting  for 
her  at  the  stage  door,  as  had  been  agreed. 

"  Jimmy  Hurdy  is  all  ready,  rny  dear,  to  take  us 
home,"  she  said,  as  Gail  appeared.  Jimmy  was  the 
livery-stable  coachman,  and  Mrs.  Leamingston  had 
engaged  his  services  only  once  before ;  but  it  was 
her  actress  nature  to  be  chatty  and  familiar  with 
everybody.  "James,  dear,"  she  said,  when  she  and 
Gail  were  seated  in  the  coach,  "  if  you'll  drive  first 
to  the  lady's  house  —  Where  is  it,  my  dear  ?  " 

Gail  informed  her.  "  No.  28 Street,  and  then 

take  me  home.  I'll  owe  you  the  fare,  and  give  you 
my  blessing  now." 

James  accepting  the  conditions  with  good  humor, 
the  coach  drove  on. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Leamingston,  "  you  have 
a  great  deal  of  love  for  the  profession,  I  notice." 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  answered  Gail,  frankly. 

"  And  you  find  it  hard  to  get  on  to  the  stage  ?  " 

Gail  felt  some  inclination  to  answer,  "I  have 
tried  but  little,  and  cannot  judge ; "  but  she  remem- 
bered her  late  contempt  for  deceit,  and  put  vanity 
aside. 

"  I  have  tried  over  and  over  again,  and  failed," 
she  said. 


176  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"It's  the  way  with  all  beginners,  my  dear,  es- 
pecially if  they're  not  born  in  the  profession.  I 
was  very  fortunate  myself.  I  was  born  in  the  pro- 
fession, and  married  into  it.  Poor  Leamingston, 
he  was  great  in  the  little  nice  bits  of  character; 
but  he  was  a  very  imprudent  man  in  his  cups.  He 
never  could  keep  an  engagement  through  the 
season." 

Gail  held  a  respectful  silence. 
• "  I  shouldn't  advise  any  young  girl  to  adopt  the 
profession,"  continued  Mrs.  Leamingston,  "if  she 
has  a  good  home,  and  good  means  of  getting  bread 
and  butter  elsewhere,  for  it's  a  hard  life ;  but,  my 
dear,  if  you'll  excuse  my  mentioning  it,  I  feel 
quite  an  interest  in  you.  I  really  do.  You  seem 
modest  and  lady-like,  and  not  obtrusive,  as  a  great 
many  young  persons  are  in,  the  profession.  I 
wouldn't  say  this,  except  between  ourselves,  for 
the  theatre  has  always  been  my  home ;  but  there's 
good  and  bad  in  all  things  —  don't  you  know 
there  is?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Gail. 

"  Well,  what  I  was  going  to  say,  my  dear,  was, 
that  if  you  would  like  to  try  for  an  engagement 
with  us  at  the  Union,  I'll  speak  a  good  word  for 
you  with  the  management,  myself." 

Gail  could  have  kissed  the  hem  of  Mrs.  Learn- 


THE   MAGIC   OP    THE   ROSE.  177 

ingston's  dress.  "You  are  too  good,"  she  cried. 
"  I  thought  myself  less  fortunate  than  others,  but 
I  see  I  was  mistaken.  There  are  very  few  who 
would  do  as  much  as  that  for  a  stranger." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  it's  my  disposition.  I  don't 
boast  of  many  good  qualities,  but  I  always  want 
to  help  any  one  who  I  think  needs  it  and  de- 
serves it." 

"But  I'm  afraid  Mr.  Lennox  does  not  think 
favorably  of  me,"  said  Gail,  flushing  slightly. 

"  What  makes  you  think  that,  my  child  ?  Mr. 
Lennox  spoke  very  highly  of  you  to  me.  He  said 
you  were  a  very  attractive  woman,  and  made  a 
very  fine  appearance  on"  the  stage." 

Gail  was  a  shade  disappointed.  She  would  have 
preferred  that  her  genius  should  be  more  impres- 
sive than  her  appearance. 

"I  was  thinking,"  she  said,  somewhat  sternly, 
«  of  last  night." 

"  Well,  now,  my  dear,  you  shouldn't  mind  that. 
Poor  Lennox  is  the  most  tender-hearted  creature 
in  the  world.  He  wouldn't  have  had  it  happen,  if 
he  could  have  helped  it;  but,  between  you  and 
me,  —  and  I  say  this  in  confidence,  —  there's  a  cer- 
tain lady  in  the  building  —  I  won't  mention  names 
—  who  didn't  play  the  most  lady-like  part  in  the 
matter.  I  don't  blame  you  at  all  for  having  some 
12 


178  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

feeling  about  it ;  but  my  advice  to  you  is,  Be  good 
friends  with  Lennox.  He  can  help  you,  if  any 
one  can.  Were  you  told  to  come  up  for  the  part 
at  night?" 

"I  was." 

"  Were  you,  indeed,  my  dear  ?  Somebody  about 
the  building  circulated  quite  a  different  story ;  but 
I  believe  you,  my  dear.  I  think  I  would  take  your 
word  before  that  somebody's;  and  then  I  would 
advise  you  to  say  nothing,  inside  of  the  building, 
about  what  we  spoke  of  in  reference  to  your  getting 
an  engagement  for  the  next  season.  Such  things 
are  much  better  kept  dark  about  a  theatre.  I  saw 
you  speaking  with  Father  Haines;  do  you  know 
him  at  all?" 

"  No,"  answered  Gail,  feeling  herself  on  danger- 
ous ground. 

"No !  Well,  I  didn't  know  but  that  you  might. 
Poor  old  Hainsy ! " 

"  Is  he  unfortunate  ?  "  inquired  Gail. 

"  No,  my  dear,  not  at  all ;  he's  very  well  thought 
of,  both  in  the  building  and  outside.  Why  do  you 
ask  me,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  You  spoke  of  him  as  '  poor.' " 

"  It's  my  way,  my  dear.  He's  an  odd  being,  but 
he's  as  good  a  soul  as  ever  breathed." 

They  had  reached  Gail's  door  by  this  time,  and, 


THE    MAGIC    OF    THE    EOSE.  179 

thanking  Mrs.  Leamingston  again,  Gail  ran  joyfully 
into  the  house. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Hart  and  Jennie.  Both 
had  seen  the  carriage  through  the  blinds. 

"Nothing,"  answered  Gail;  "only  we  shan't 
have  to  hire  a  theatre,  Jennie." 

"Too  bad,"  said  Jennie,  with  anything  but  a 
sorrowful  emphasis.  "  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  —  I'm  —  going  —  to  —  play  —  at  — 
somebody's  —  benefit,"  replied  Gail,  separating 
the  words  with  comical  precision. 

"  There ! "  said  Mrs.  Hart,  triumphantly ;  "  didn't 
I  say,  Go  to  the  theatre  just  as  you  always  do,  and 
keep  your  ears  open,  and  you'll  hear  something. 
If  I  was  you,  Gail,  I'd  cultivate  some  of  those 
play-actors  a  little." 

"  I  don't  suppose,"  said  Gail,  cautiously,  "it  will 
be  a  very  good  part;  but,  then,  it's  better  than 
nothing  at  all." 

"  It's  splendid,"  said  Jennie ;  "  because,  you  see, 
we  can  go  on  with  our  plans  about  the  theatre ;  and 
this  will  be  all  clear  gain." 

"That  is  not  all,  either,"  said  Gail.  "There's 
something  else." 

"  What  ?  "  inquired  Jennie,  eagerly. 

"  Do  tell,"  said  Mrs.  Hart,  with  impatient  excite- 
ment; "you  always  want  to  make  a  mystery  of 
everything." 


180  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"  You  remember  the  lady  who  plays  the  Nurse  — 
she  offered,  all  of  her  own  accord,  to  speak  a  good 
word  about  my  getting  an  engagement  next  sea- 
son. I  rode  home  here  with  her  in  her  carriage." 

"What  lady?  What  nurse?  I  saw  you  come 
'  prancing '  home  in  a  carriage ;  and  it  gave  me  the 
awfulest  start !  I  thought  nothing  but  that  one  of 
those  infernal  —  if  I  must  call  it  by  name  —  ma- 
chines there,  that  you  go  up  on,  had  come  down, 
and  that  you  had  broken  your  neck." 

"  And  that  isn't  all,  either,"  said  Gail,  suddenly 
remembering  the  note  that  Martin  had  given  her. 
She  drew  it  forth,  and  read,  "  Dear  Miss  Hart,  I 
should  be  happy  to  see  you  in  my  office  between 
ten  and  eleven  o'clock  Monday  morning.  Yours 
respectfully.  Thomas  Lennox." 

These  few  words  were  written  in  so  careless  a 
manner,  that  nothing  short  of  Gail's  impatient  in- 
terest could  have  deciphered  them.  Mrs.  Hart  and 
Jennie,  in  the  mean  while,  read  them  much  more 
plainly  from  her  face. 

"  Do  let's  see  it,"  cried  Mrs.  Hart.  "  Dear  me ! 
can't  you  read  it  aloud  ?  " 

"O  Jennie,  Jennie,"  cried  Gail,  when  she  had 
complied,  "you  don't  think  this  note  can  mean  I'm 
not  to  play  for  the  Friar's  benefit,  after. all?" 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Jennie,  who  was  even  of  a 


THE   MAGIC   OF    THE    ROSE.  181 

more  hopeful  character  than  her  sister.  "  I  know 
it's  nothing  of  the  sort.  Besides,  you  just  look 
clear  ahead  to  the  goal,  and  never  mind  the  strug- 
gle, the  sinking  and  the  rising  that  come  between. 
Swim  out  the  best  you  know  how,  and  you'll  reach 
it,  be  sure." 

"I  wish  I  could  feel  as  you  do,"  answered  the 
elder  sister;  "  but,  as  it  is,  I  guess  I  had  better  try 
and  think  —  " 

"You  had  better  go  to  bed  early,  and  not  lie 
awake  all  night  talking  about  it,"  said  the  mother. 
"  You  are  as  black  round  your  eyes  now  as  a  coal ; 
and  you  won't  be  fit  to  play  in  anything  if  you 
don't  re§t.  I  dare  say  that  other  woman  there 
knows  precious  well  how  to  take  care  of  herself. 
You'd  never  do  for  the  stage  in  that  respect;  that's 
clear." 

Mrs.  Hart  was  possessed  of  the  popular  idea  that 
actors  and  actresses  have  little  to  do  with  feeling, 
except  on  the  stage,  and  are  creatures  of  extraordi- 
nary coolness,  self-command,  and  presence  of  mind 
in  every-day  life. 

Gail  followed  her  mother's  advice,  that  night,  in 
a  most  dutiful  manner,  with  a  sort  of  half  resolve 
to  follow  her  own.  But  when  she  was  alone,  she 
again  read  the  note,  which  she  already  knew  by 
heart,  to  convince  herself  there  was  nothing  alarm- 


182  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

ing  in  its  purport.  After  she  had  performed  this 
little  ceremony,  she  became  less  doubtful  and  more 
elated. 

It  is  joy  to  receive  something  we  have  long  de- 
sired ;  but  to  lose  that  thing,  to  bewail  it,  and 
then  to  regain  it,  is  to  be  blessed.  Gail's  bitter 
experience  had  broken  some  of  the  little  tendrils 
of  vanity  that  clung  to  the  stage,  apart  from  her 
art.  But  the  roots  of  her  nature  had  taken  yet 
stronger  hold  of  the  art  itself.  She  appeared  before 
Mrs.  Hart  and  Jennie,  on  the  following  morning, 
equipped  for  the  ordeal  in  a  plain  dress  and  hat, 
and  a  pair  of  large,  warm  mittens  on  her  small 
hands.  "Jennie,"  she  said,  "you  see  I've  got  on  my 
armor.  I  mean  to  win  the  battle  by  my  fitness 
alone.  Genius  requires  at  our  hands  self-abnega- 
tion from  all  minor  vanities  and  petty  schemes  of 
self-interest,  before  she  will  crown  us  with  immor- 
tality. Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Gail,  you  are  a  perfect  fool ! "  said  Mrs.  Hart, 
discontentedly.  "  Self-abne-fiddlesticks !  Go  and 
dress  yourself  so  as  to  look  as  handsome  as  you 
can.  You  won't  look  any  too  well.  Please  the 
managers  now,  and  keep  your  high-flown  notion 
till  you  have  the  reins  in  your  own  hands." 

"  I  must  act  as  I  am  endowed.  I  have  no  power 
to  be  sociable,  and  make  myself  popular;  and  I 


THE    MAGIC   OF    THE    ROSE.  183 

find  myself  wofully  distracted  and  disabled  by  try- 
ing to  fathom  the  games  of  others.  It  frets  me, 
and  makes  me  ungenerous  and  suspicious." 

"Is  big  mittens  indispensable  to  self-abnega- 
tion ? "  said  Jennie.  "  Now,  I  think  art  is  worth 
respecting  in  dress  as  well  as  in  other  things,  pro- 
vided we  do  not  let  it  occupy  our  mind  and  time 
too  much.  I  like  to  see  people  a  little  vain ;  it 
makes  them  happier." 

"  Sometimes;  but  not  when  one  wants  to  devote 
the  full  force  of  the  mind  to  one  purpose." 


184  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

STRAWS. 

GAIL,  however,  did  not  repair  to  the  manager's 
office  with  a  mind  as  independent  as  her  dress. 
Beneath  the  frank  dignity  was  the  constraint  and 
nervousness  of  a  morbidly  sensitive  and  imagina- 
tive nature. 

Lennox  was  seated  at  his  table,  in  company  with 
the  Friar. 

"Good  morning,  my  dear,"  said  the  latter,  with 
his  pompous  respect. 

"  Sit  down,  my  dear,"  said  Lennox,  with  his  easy 
familiarity;  but  without,  however,  raising  his  eyes 
from  the  table. 

Gail  obeyed;  and  in  the  silence  and  her  con- 
straint, the  air  seemed  to  creep  and  gather  in  dark 
waves  about  the  objects  on  which  her  eyes  were 
fixed.  She  experienced  two  emotions  antagonistic 
to  each  other.  Her  wounded  pride  at  the  insult 
her  genius  had  received  from  the  manager  was 
ready  to  fight ;  while  the  hunger  of  her  love  for 
her  art  was  ready  to  beg. 


STRAWS.  185 

"  Now,  then,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Lennox,  glan- 
cing up,  "  I  understand  you  wish  to  enter  the  pro- 
fession ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Gail. 

"I  don't  know,"  continued  the  manager,  cau- 
tiously, "  how  I  shall  be  situated  for  the  coming 
season ;  but  if  there  is  an  opening  I  shall  have  you 
in  my  eye.  In  the  mean  while,  we  have  arranged  a 
debut  for  you  at  this  gentleman's  benefit.  We  do 
a  piece  we  brought  out  here  in  the  first  of  the 
season,  called  '  Nelly's  Fate.'  You  will  play  —  let 
me  see  —  Molly  —  Hetty  —  " 

"Nelly,"  suggested  the  Friar. 

Gail  sprang  up,  and  clapped  her  hands.  She  had 
witnessed  the  piece,  and  been  strongly  impressed 
with  the  leading  part.  She  forgot  all  else  in  her 
enthusiasm.  "The  part  affords  great  scope,"  she 
cried,  "for  passionate  and  emotional  acting,  and 
the  situations  are  thrilling." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  that's  all  for  this  morning,"  said 
the  manager,  smiling,  "  except  there's  a  rehearsal 
at  eleven  —  is  there  not,  Haines?" 

"  Half  past,"  answered  the  Friar. 

"  Half  past,"  repeated  the  manager.  "  Go  down 
now  and  get  Martin  to  give  you  your  part.  The 
piece  is  in  manuscript,  and  there  are  no  books." 
The  manager's  familiar  direction  sounded  inex- 


•  186  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

pressibly  charming  to  Gail.     It  seemed  to  recognize 
her  as  one  of  the  company. 

Behind  the  scenes  she  met  Mrs.  Leamingston, 
who  greeted  her  kindly.  "I  see,  my  dear,  you  are 
to  appear  at  Mr.  Raines's  benefit.  I'm  glad  of  it. 
Your  name  is  in  the  cast.  It's  an  excellent  part  — 
'Nelly  Dillon.'" 

Gail's  face  flushed  with  the  exquisite  pleasure 
this  trifling  honor  gave  her,  and  she  stole  into  the 
green-room  and  glanced  at  the  little  velvet-lined} 
glass-covered  show-case,  in  which  the  casts  were 
pinned.  She  dared  do  no  more  than  glance ;  for 
the  company  —  many  of  them  —  were  present,  and 
she  was  shy  of  displaying  the  red  glow  of  pure 
pleasure  that  suffused  her  face,  and  the  conscious 
smile  that  played  about  her  lips ;  but  in  her  glance 
she  saw  written,  in  the  stage  manager's  well-known 
hand,  "Nelly  Dillon  — Miss  A.  Hart." 

"  Is  there  anything,"  said  one  of  the  actresses,  — 
studying  the  cast  with  an  air  of  nonchalance  Gail 
wondered  she  could  acquire,  —  "that  concerns  me? 
No;  nothing  new;  that's  good,  and  gives  me  a 
night  off.  Let  me  see,  though ;  the  bill's  not  up 
for  Thursday  and  Friday." 

"We  do  that  Irish  piece  —  'Nelly's  Fate'  —  for 
one  thing,  Friday,  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Latell 
—  "Haines's  benefit,  you  know;  he  does  'Pat  Dil- 
lon.' " 


STRAWS.  187 

"  O,  true,  true ! "  went  on  the  actress,  musingly. 
"  Let  me  see.  Is  the  cast  up  yet  ?  —  O,  yes !  here 
it  is.  I  didn't  see  it.  Bet  Fagan — Mrs.  Lea m- 
ingston ;  that's  you,  my  dear,"  she  added,  turning  to 
the  Nurse,  who  had  just  entered ;  "  they  can't  let 
you  off,  I  see." 

"No  rest  for  the  wicked,  my  dear,"  answered  the 
Nurse,  with  a  smile.  "  Mrs.  Dillon  —  Mrs.  Latell," 
continued  the  reader.  "  Kittle  Dillon  —  Miss  Julie 
Ward ;  so  she's  up  for  something.  I  thought  she 
didn't  come  till  next  season.  Is  it  much  of  a  part, 
I  wonder  ?  " 

"It  is  only  a  few  lines,"  said  Isabel  Lester. 
"You  may  know  that;  for  I  went  on  for  it  in  the 
first  of  the  season." 

"It's  a  very  good  little  bit,  I  am  sure,"  said  the 
Nurse. 

"  It's  a  very  good  little  bit  better  than  Nancy," 
spoke  up  Isabel,  sharply;  "and  I  do  that  now, 
of  course." 

"  Norry  Croon  —  Miss  Simpson ;  that's  me.  It's 
only  a  line  or  two,  I  suppose ;  so  I'll  get  Harrey 
Seely  to  let  me  have  the  prompt-book." 

"The  parts  are  given  out.  Martin  ought  to 
have  been  here  with  them  by  this  time.  It's  called 
for  half  past  eleven." 

"I  wonder  who  does  Nelly's?"  went  on  Miss 


188  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

Simpson.  "  I  don't  see  Ceelems'  name.  Is  there 
a  blank  for  it,  I  wonder.  It's  a  benefit,  you  know. 
Ah,  here  it  is:  'Nelly — Miss  A.  Hart.'  Who's 
that  ?  None  of  our  company." 

"  This  is  Miss  Hart,"  said  the  Nurse,  introducing 
Gail,  pleasantly.  "She  does  the  part  for  Lewy 
Haines's  benefit."  t 

"  Ah,  indeed,"  said  Miss  Simpson,  coldly ;  "  how 
do  you?" 

"  O,  here  you  are,  Martin  ! "  she  added,  warmly. 
"  What  have  you  got  there  for  me  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  responded  Martin,  facetiously. 
"  There  won't  be  no  parts  given  out  in  this  here 
place." 

u  Now,  Martin,  you  are  too  bad ! "  said  the  ladies, 
laughing  at  Martin's  humor. 

"Now  really,  though,"  said  Martin,  "Johnny 
hasn't  got  them  ready." 

Gail  was  too  happy  and  too  much  excited  to  re- 
main still  till  Martin  should  be  ready  with  the  part 
she  was  impatient  to  examine.  She  strolled  out 
of  the  green-room.  The  same  chilly,  monotonous 
murmur  was  taking  place  on  the  stage  that  Gail 
had  observed  at  the  first  rehearsal.  But  it  no 
longer  had  upon  her  the  same  effect.  She  seated 
herself  to  watch  the  rehearsal,  with  a  new  interest. 
The  piece  then  on  the  stage  was  "Retribution." 


STRAWS.  189 

Miss  Ceelems,  in  the  leading  role  of  Clarisse,  stood 
at  the  right  hand,  first  entrance,  O.  P.,  waiting  for 
her  cue.  Ceelems  was  dressed  with  more  than  her 
usual  elegance  —  in  a  fine  brocade  silk  and  a  rich 
camel's  hair  shawl.  Both  dress  and  shawl  were 
particularly  becoming  to  the  wearer's  style.  Miss 
Ceelems  was  tall,  possessed  regular  features,  fine 
eyes  and  complexion.  Her  habitual  expression, 
when  not  speaking,  was  an  interesting  sentimen- 
tal gloom,  in  which  there  was  much  of  the  stage 
charm.  When  in  conversation,  there  was  in  her 
manner  a  methodical,  artistic  gayety.  She  pre- 
sented a  magnificent  contrast  to  Gail  on  this  par- 
ticular morning;  for  Gail  sat,  in  her  homely  dress, 
absorbed  in  dreams  of  advancement,  utterly  uncon- 
scious of  her  own  attitude  and  appearance,  while 
the  leading  lady  of  the  Union  Theatre  swept  past 
her  with  not  only  a  self-possessed  air,  but  an  air  of 
possessing  everything  about  her  also.  Occasion- 
ally she  bestowed  upon  Gail  a  glance  of  seeming 
indifference,  but  in  reality  of  secret  hostility.  She 
felt  in  Gail  a  rival.  How  dangerous,  or  how  harm- 
less, she  could  not  say ;  for,  in  the  great  game  of 
whist,  —  the  theatre,  where  so  much  ambition  and 
self-interest  is  concerned,  —  the  players  conceal 
their  hands,  and  win  by  trieks  as  well  as  by  hon- 
ors;, and  Gail,  humble  as  she  looked,  might  pos- 


190  BEHIND   THE    SCENES. 

sess  weapons  that  did  not  appear.  At  any  rate, 
Ceelems  flung  down  her  glove,  and  armed  herself 
for  an  emergency.  She  was  not,  however,  at  this 
moment,  armed  to  the  teeth,  but  rather  to  the  lips 
and  eyes ;  for  she  greeted  the  manager  in  her  most 
fascinating  actress  manner. 

Lennox  appeared  in  company  with  Marc  Dalton  ; 
and  though  they  passed  Gail,  neither  of  them  ob- 
served her  in  the  superior  brilliancy  of  the  "  lead- 
ing lady." 

"  Ah,  how  is  me  Lenny  this  morning  ? "  asked 
Ceelems,  archly.  Miss  Ceelems  always  spoke  to 
the  manager  as  if  she  were  in  the  presence  of  an 
invisible  audience. 

"  Miss  Ceelems,"  Lenny  replied,  "  upon  my  soul, 
I  don't  know.  Those  fellows  kept  me  up  so  late 
last  night,  that,  as  near  as  I  can  judge,  I  have  got 
the  deuce  and  all  of  a  headache." 

"  O,  Tommy,  Tommy,"  said  Ceelems,  throwing 
a  serious  shade  into  her  lighter  manner,  "you  are  a 
sad  man.  I  don't  know  whether  to  punish  you  or 
to  nurse  you ;  and  that's  a  fearful  state  of  doubt. 
It  hurts  to  be  punished,  you  know,"  she  added, 
saucily,  patting  one  pretty  jewelled  hand  smartly 
over  the  other  once  or  twice. 

Lennox  and  Dalton  both  laughed.  "Now,  by 
George,"  said  the  manager,  "I'll  let  a  woman  whip 
me;  but  I'd  give  a  man  'Jessie'  if  he  tried." 


STRAWS.  191 

"  I  suppose,  then,  I  can't  send  for  my  big  brother, 
as  the  lady  in  the  farce  does,  and  do  the  business 
by  proxy,  eh  ?  "  replied  Ceelems.  Changing  her 
tone,  she  added,  "But  no;  it  shall  be  cured  by 
magnetism.  Do  you  believe  in  magnetism,  sir? 
It  all  depends  on  faith,  you  know."  Fanny  laid 
her  hand  on  the  manager's  shoulder. 

" He  believes  in  gal-va.msm"  said  Dalton,  laugh- 
ing, "  if  he's  flesh  and  blood." 

"  You're  too  bad,  Marc,  by  Jove,"  said  the  man- 
ager. "  Upon  my  soul,  Miss  Fanny,  I  have  faith 
when  I  can  trust  the  doctor." 

"You  can  trust  me,"  said  Fanny,  sweetly,  and 
at  the  same  time  artfully.  "Don't  you  know  I'm 
a  magnetic  character?  Who  was  that  poor  young 
man  who  wrote  a  poem  for  one  of  the  newspapers, 
about  somebody's  magnetic  charms?  Well,  of 
course,  that  somebody  must  have  magnetic  charms ; 
for  the  papers  always  speak  the  truth.  There,  does 
that  make  it  feel  better?" 

"It  produces  a  counter-irritation  in  the  heart, 
my  dear,"  said  the  manager. 

"Dear,  dear!"  responded  Fanny;  "just  hear 
him  talk.  But  seriously,  now,  talking  of  papers, 
who's  the  theatrical  critic  of  the  Morning  Com- 
pass, I  wonder?  Do  you  know?" 

"  Well,  no,"  replied  the  manager,  laughing.  "  I 
should  suppose  you'd  know,  if  anybody." 


192  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"  Now  you  are  too  cruel,"  cried  the  actress.  k>I 
don't,  'honor  bright.'  I  only  wonder  somebody 
don't  put  him  in  a  strait  jacket.  He  ought  not 
to  be  allowed  to  inflict  his  insanity  upon  the  pub- 
lic. He  deals  in  adjectives,  that  man  does.  He 
has  advanced  from  bewitchingly  charming  to  irre- 
sistibly fascinating  in  the  case  of  your  humble 
servant." 

"  His  disease  must  be  catching,"  said  Lennox, 
bowing  politely.  "  The  other  papers  follow  suit." 

"She  must  have  affected  them  all,  as  she  has 
poor  Dick  Harben,"  said  Dalton,  "  by  St.  Peter  — 

"  You  are  really  cruel  to  Bick,  Miss  Fanny,"  put 
in  the  manager,  who  sometimes  nipped  Dallon's 
speeches  in  the  bud,  lest  he  should  utter  something 
positively  unmannerly.  "  Upon  ray  soul,  Fanny,  I 
pity  poor  Dick.  I  wouldn't  be  Dick  for  considera- 
ble. By  Jove  !  poor  Dick." 

"Dick's  caught  the  fever  awful  bad,"  said  the 
irrepressible  Dalton,  breaking  out  into  a  fresh 
laugh.  "I'm  afraid  Dick  don't  sleep  well  nights." 

"  O !  O !  O  !  You're  too  bad,  gentlemen,"  cried 
the  actress,  hiding  the  face  that  w^s  guiltless  of  a 
blush  behind  her  pretty  hands.  "It  is  you  that  are 
cruel  to  each  other." 

"Ah!  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Lennox. 
"  We  men  fight  in  open  field ;  but  you  women  con- 


STRAWS.  193 

ceal  the  point  of  your  weapon  till  it  enters   a 
fellow's  heart." 

"Now,  Mr.  Lennox,  you  don't  mean  all  that 
horrid  stuff,  I  know." 

"  Clarisse ! "  sounded  the  prompter's  voice  from 
the  stage. 

"  My  God,  that's  me ! "  cried  Ceelems,  "  and  I 
ought  to  be  round  on  the  other  side.  It's  your 
fault,  you  naughty  men." 

"  Clarisse  !  Clarisse  ! "  repeated  the  prompter, 
glancing  at  the  wing  with  impatience.  "  It's  you, 
madam." 

"  That  prompter  is  really  impertinent,"  thought 
Ceelems,  as  she  hastily  found  her  place  in  the  book. 
"  He's  officious,  and  wants  to  show  off  before  the 
management.  Let's  see!  Let's  see!"  she  said 
aloud.  "  My  husband's  voice  in  that  room  !  Ah, 
heavens!  Count  Priuli!" 

Gail  returned  to  the  green-room,  where  she 
found  Martin  distributing  the  parts,  and  spicing 
their  delivery  with  a  little  bantering  of  his  own. 
She  received  hers  with  visible  emotion,  and  the 
consciousness  of  the  eyes  that  were  directed  to- 
wards her  made  her  timid  of  reading  it.  She 
contented  herself — as  many  a  lover  has  done  in 
company — with  the  secret  touch  of  his  mistress's 
hand,  by  letting  the  hidden  charm  of  the  contact 
13 


194  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

spread  subtilely  through  her  nerves  and  brain.  But 
it  was  not  long  before  she  sought  out  her  old  nook 
behind  a  large  pile  of  wings,  at  the  back  of  the 
stage,  and  opening  her  little  note  paper  book,  com- 
menced quaffing  the  first  draughts  of  the  magic 
liquid  that  was  to  change  her  into  another  being. 
Already  she  had  begun  to  feel  her  mind  fitting 
itself  to  different  sympathies  and  circumstances, 
when  the  sound  of  a  voice,  strange  to  the  place, 
caused  her  to  raise  her  eyes.  The  voice  belonged 
to  an  elderly  gentleman,  who  had  about  as  little 
the  appearance  of  any  of  the  various  insects  that 
are  supposed  to  flutter  about  the  theatre,  attracted 
by  its  injurious  light,  as  was  possible.  He  was 
neither  stage-struck,  a  fast  man,  an  actor,  nor  an 
author.  He  was  neither  ill  at  ease,  nor  at  home. 
He  was  too  individual  to  be  susceptible  to  any 
skin-deep  influence.  His  body  was  small  and  wiry, 
but  his  head  and  forehead  large,  and  beneath  a 
pair  of  dark,  shaggy  eyebrows  burned  two  keen 
blue  eyes.  He  peered  first  into  one  wing,  and  then 
into  another,  as  if  he  were  searching  for  something. 
"  Do  these  lamps  smoke  at  night  ?  "  he  asked  of 
one  of  the  scene-shifters,  eyeing  the  border-lights 
sharply.  "  These  traps  would  go  like  shavings  from 
only  a  spark.  You  men  keep  your  buckets  ready, 
I  hope." 


STRAWS.  195 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  one  of  the  men,  explaining 
how  the  scenes  and  dresses  were  protected  by  a 
wire  covering  to  the  lights. 

"  Won't  do  to  trust  it,"  said  the  little  man,  im- 
patiently. "Must  keep  your  eyes  peeled,  too  — 
Here,  what  is  this  ?  "  he  added,  ferreting  out  some 
paint  pots  and  a  can  of  turpentine.  "  Tut,  tut,  tut ! 
Put  these  things  out  of  the  way  of  the  lights." 

He  handled  them  cautiously,  and  glanced  about 
the  building. 

"  They  won't  be  there  at  night,"  said  one  of  the 
men,  respectfully. 

"  See  to  it  that  they  are  not,"  said  the  little  man, 
emphatically ;  and  he  looked  up  and  down,  and  into 
another  wing,  where  he  discovered  Miss  Ceelerns, 
who  had  just  made  her  exit.  Miss  Ceelems  met 
him  with  marked  politeness. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Harben,  this  is  an  unexpected 
pleasure  to  see  you." 

"  I  always  go  over  the  building  once  a  month, 
marm,"  said  Harben,  seeming  mentally  to  hold  the 
actress  at  arms'  length,  as  if  she  was  something 
even  more  combustible  than  the  gas,  or  the  tur- 
pentine, and  something  he  knew  far  less  how  to 
dispose  of. 

"But,  dear  Mr.  Harben,  I  am  not  always  for- 
tunate enough  to  see  yon,  and  that  is  a  great  loss 


196  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

to  me ;  for  I  like  to  thank  you  once  in  a  while  for 
your  kind  protection  of  me  here." 

Mr.  Harben  knitted  his  brows.  "  Has  that  boy 
of  mine  been  around  here,  making  a  fool  and  a 
nuisance  of  himself? "  he  inquired. 

"  I  have  not  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Mr. 
Richard,  sir.  We  actresses  have  to  be  occupied 
with  our  business  here,  and  get  very  little  time  to 
see  our  friends."  Fanny's  reply  was  given  with 
peculiar  emphasis. 

"  It  would  do  no  woman  any  good  to  see  Dick," 
said  Harben,  with  a  kind  of  nervous  irritation  in 
his  manner.  "  Dick's  a  poor  boy.  Dick  isn't  worth 
a  red  cent.  A  woman  is  much  better  off  to  get 
her  bread  and  butter  in  a  good  business,  espe- 
cially if  she  has  the  chance  that  you  have  here, 
marm." 

"  Ah,  I  know  that  quite  well,  Mr.  Harben,"  an- 
swered Fanny,  with  a  sigh;  "and  even  if  that 
were  not  so,  do  you  think  I  could  be  so  ungrate- 
ful to  you  ?  No,  Mr.  Harben ;  I  have  that  respect 
for  you  that  your  wishes  are  paramount  with  me." 

"  I  hope  so  - —  I  hope  so,"  muttered  old  Harben, 
with  a  strong  shade  of  suspicion  in  his  tone.  "  It's 
for  your  own  good,  marm ;  it's  for  your  interest  to 
do  so,  especially  here  in  this  place,  marm.  Good 
night,  marm ! " 


STRAWS.  197 

"Good  night,  sir!"  and  Fanny  curled  her  lips 
slightly,  as  she  went  on  to  the  stage  to  resume 
her  part,  while  old  Harben  continued  his  search. 

"What  are  you  doing  there,  miss?"  he  said, 
coming  upon  Gail's  retreat. 

"  Studying,  sir." 

"What  are  you  studying?     How  to  cipher?" 

"  My  part  in  the  next  piece." 

"  O,"  said  the  old  man,  as  if  he  remembered  the 
place  he  was  in,  "  don't  you  know  better  than  to 
sit  here  in  the  cold?  You'll  catch  your  death. 
Get  up  and  go  where  there's  a  fire.  Thirty  per 
cent,  of  all  the  consumption  that  occurs  is  got  by 
just  such  tricks."  Gail  rose  with  a  smile,  and 
Harben  was  about  to  leave  her,  when  he  turned 
suddenly,  and  again  addressed  her. 

"  Did  my  boy  Dick  ever  make  love  to  you  ?  " 

"No,  sir,"  answered  Gail,  a  little  scared. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  him  make  love  to  the  other 
woman,  there,  on  the  stage  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  If  you  ever  do,  and  she's  soft  on  him,  tell  me, 
and  I'll  put  you  into  her  shoes  in  the  theatre. 
Ha,  ha,  ha  ! " 

"  But  I  shan't  tell  you,  sir." 

"Why  not?    Why  not?" 

"  Because  I'm  not  ambitious  to  play  the  part  of 
a  spy." 


198  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

The  old  man  eyed  her  curiously.  "  But  it  is  a 
good  cause,  and  you'd  get  all  the  best  parts  —  the 
best  parts  —  by  it ;  think  of  that ! " 

"  I  can  do  without  them,"  answered  Gail. 

"Or  you  can  get  them  without  pleasing  me, 
perhaps  you  mean,"  said  the  old  man. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  can,"  answered  Gail. 
"  Who  are  you  ?  One  of  the  influential  men  we 
novices  always  imagine  help  others,  and  stand  in 
our  way  ?  " 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha ! "  said  Harben,  who  seemed  greatly 
amused  at  this  idea.  "That's  just  what  I  am. 
I  could  have  you  turned  out  of  this  place,  if  I 
had  a  mind." 

"  No,  sir !     I  think  you  could  not,  just  now." 

"  Why  not,  miss  ?     How  should  you  know  ?  " 

"Because  I  don't  belong  in  the  place." 

"  You're  a  witty  girl,  and  you're  a  fool  at  the 
same  time ;  because,  if  you  pleased  me,  you  would 
belong  in  the  place." 

"Not  such  a  fool  as  you  think,"  answered  Gail. 
"As  near  as  I  can  judge  character,  I  should  please 
you  quite  as  well  not  to  flatter  you." 

"  Look  ee  here,"  said  the  old  man ;  "  I  tell  you 
what :  if  my  son  Dick  makes  love  to  you^  you 
needn't  give  him  the  mitten ;  but  no,  you're  too 
good  for  poor  Dick.  Dick,  miss,  is  an  idle  rascal ! 


STEAWS.  199 

Good  morning."  The  old  man  hurried  away  ab- 
ruptly, leaving  Gail  half  amused,  but  anxious. 
Genius,  then,  the  key  to  the  people's  heart,  was 
not  the  open  sesame  to  the  stage  door.  This 
barrier  only  half  revealed,  and  still  in  obscurity, 
looked,  perhaps,  more  formidable  to  Gail  than  it 
really  was.  "  My  poor  success  of  one  night,  even 
if  I  achieve  it,"  she  thought,  "  cannot  do  much  for 
me  against  such  odds." 

From  this  time  until  the  time  of  her  debut,  one 
circumstance  after  another  occurred,  tending  not 
only  to  confirm  her  in  her  suspicions  of  the  po- 
tency of  outside  influences,  but  to  shake  her  faith 
in  the  people's  heart  itself;  for  in  her  visits  to  the 
auditory,  she  often  heard  fine  acting  delivered  to 
apathetic  listeners,  while  some  cheap -and  hackneyed 
sentiment,  shouted  with  sufficient  noise,  awoke  a 
corresponding  echo  of  applause.  Ceelems,  who 
performed  every  night,  rose  suddenly  in  popularity, 
both  with  the  management  and  with  the  public. 
At  the  rehearsals  she  coquetted  with  Lennox,  and 
made  the  time  he  spent  behind  the  scenes  pass  in 
a  most  agreeable  manner.  At  night  she  played 
with  unusual  confidence;  the  papers  expressed  it, 
with  "  unusual  power."  The  play  of  Retribution, 
was  to  prelude  Nelly's  Fate  on  the  night  of 
Gail's  debut,  and  handsome  photographs  of  "Miss 


200  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

Fanny  Ceelems,  the  charming  popular  actress  of 
the  Union  Theatre,"  adorned  the  print-shops,  while 
the  main  entrance  of  the  theatre  presented  a  por- 
trait of  her  life  size. 

There  was  no  heralding  of  Gail's  appearance, 
either  in  the  bills  or  the  newspapers,  and  behind 
the  scenes  she  passed  unobserved  in  her  old  soli- 
tary way. 


AMONG    OTHER    THINGS,    A    QUEER   DEBUT.    201 


CHAPTER  IX. 

AMONG    OTHER   THINGS,   A   QUEER   DEBUT. 

THE  play  of  Nelly's  Fate  is  a  dramatization  from 
a  touching  little  story,  the  plot  of  which  is  briefly 
this.  Nelly,  the  pride  of  the  place,  has  a  lover,  a 
reckless,  unprincipled  man,  who  is  disapproved  of 
by  her  father,  and  peremptorily  sent  about  his  busi- 
ness. Nelly  is  persuaded  to  accept  the  addresses 
of  one  Dennis  Ryan.  Of  course  this  incurs  the 
anger  and  jealousy  of  her  old  lover,  Peter  Fogarty. 
The  play  opens  with  a  rural  ball  in  Tim  Scollay's 
barn,  at  which  Peter,  by  his  superior  audacity, 
claims  so  much  of  Nelly's  attention,  as  to  occasion 
gossip  in  the  village.  At  home  Nelly  is  taken 
severely  to  task  for  her  conduct  at  the  ball,  and 
sets  out  on  a  nightly  duty  to  meet  and  assist  her 
mother  in  bringing  home  parcels,  in  no  very  good 
humor.  Fogarty  puts  himself  in  her  path,  and 
when  he  cannot  persuade  her  to  accompany  him 
abroad,  —  whither  he  is  obliged  to  flee,  having  since 
the  ball  committed  a  slight  murder  in  his  native 
town,  —  he  abducts  her  by  force.  Nelly's  absence, 


202  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

and  that  of  her  former  lover,  coupled  with  the  late 
gossip,  and  the  humor  in  which  she  left  home,  con- 
spire to  cast  a  fearful  suspicion  on  her  name.  Her 
own  family  and  her  betrothed  turn  against  her.  In 
the  mean  while  Peter  is  frustrated  in  his  designs 
by  the  police,  and  forced  to  leave  Nelly  in  a  cave, 
many  miles  distant  from  her  home,  whither  she  has 
been  conducted  blindfolded,  and  in  a  swoon.  She 
awakes  to  find  herself  alone  and  in  a  strange  locali- 
ty. She  strives  to  discover  her  way  home,  falls  sick, 
and  is  taken  care  of  by  strangers.  When  she  recov- 
ers, and  learns  the  time  that  has  passed  during  her 
illness,  she  is  overcome  with  anguish,  and  though 
sick  and  feeble,  she  again  seeks  her  home,  stealing 
out  of  the  house  alone,  lest  the  good  people  should 
detain  her  out  of  consideration  for  her  weakness. 
When  she  reaches  home,  it  is  to  receive  the  curses 
of  her  father,  who  closes  his  door  against  her.  She 
is  found,  half  dead,  by  one  Bet  Fagan,  who  is  every- 
body's friend,  and  who  conducts  Nelly  to  her  own 
house,  and  though  only  half  believing  Nelly's  sto- 
ry, straightway  sets  about  ascertaining  the  truth  ; 
to  which  end  she  visits  the  jail  where  Peter  is 
awaiting  his  doom,  and  begs  of  him  to  set  Nelly 
right  before  her  people  if  possible.  Peter  at  first 
refuses  to  do  this,  out  of  hate  for  his  rival ;  but 
upon  the  cunning  insinuations  of  Bet,  who  tells 


AMONG    OTHER    THINGS,    A    QUEER   DEBUT.     203 

him  that  Nelly's  heart  is  rather  with  him  than  with 
Dennis,  he  consents  to  make  confession  to  the 
priest.  The  result  of  this  confession  is  the  public 
announcement  of  Nelly's  innocence,  in  the  church, 
by  Father  M'Cabe,  and  the  consequent  joy  of  her 
family  and  her  lover  Dennis,  who  seek  her  at  Bet's 
house,  and  are  ready  to  receive  her.  But  Nelly, 
whose  wrongs  and  bodily  and  mental  illness  have 
wrought  in  her  a  fierce  morbid  pride,  denounces 
her  people  and  her  lover,  and  turns  her  heart  to 
Peter  as  the  only  true  love  among  them  all.  She 
is,  however,  overcome  by  tender  memories,  and 
before  dying,  relents  and  forgives.  N.  B.  The  story 
ended  with  the  denunciation,  but  the  dramatizer, 
being  a  tender-hearted  mortal,  throws  in  the  for- 
giveness without  extra  cost. 

The  night  of  the  debut  arrived.  The  posters 
outside  the  building  announced,  in  type  somewhat 
larger  than  the  print  of  the  general  cast,  — 

"First  appearance  of  a  young  lady  upon  any 
stage,"  and  the  small  bills  within  echoed  the  same 
thing  more  feebly,  and  in  smaller  type. 

Gail  glanced  at  the  posters  as  she  passed  them 
on  her  way  to  the  stage  door,  and  at  the  gay 
throng  pouring  in  from  the  street.  She  was  re- 
minded of  the  little  child,  in  days  gone  by,  who 
had  prayed  and  dreamed  over  being  an  actress, 


204  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

and  had  been  dazzled  by  the  posters,  and  it  came 
home  to  her  that  the  prayer  was  answered.  For 
an  instant  the  woman  was  not  less  dazzled  than 
the  child.  She  tasted,  in  anticipation,  a  little  of  the 
intoxicating  romance  that  awaits  a  successful  ac- 
tress in  the  love  and  worship  of  an  enthusiastic 
public.  She  was  agitated  also.  For  the  first  time 
it  looked  to  her  no  trifling  ordeal  to  stand  the  bat- 
tery of  an  army  of  minds  equipped  with  eyes  and 
appetites  critical.  "  Who  was  she?  to  dare  to  face 
this  many-headed  monster,  with  its  serpent's  hiss, 
and  say, '  I  will  charm  you '  ?  " 

But  once  behind  the  scenes,  her  fears  took  flight. 
The  influence  within  was  not  at  all  exciting. 
There  was  the  same  dull  chill,  the  same  stillness, 
the  same  odor  of  gas  and  paint,  the  same  sleepy, 
blinking  effect  of  the  lights.  James  dozed  in  his 
chair  in  the  passage-way,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets ;  and  the  prompter  yawned  listlessly,  as 
his  slippered  feet  pattered  softly  up  and  down  the 
ghosts'  walk.  He  was  waiting  the  time  to  ring  in 
the  orchestra.  The  prompter  was  always  prompt  at 
his  post  at  precisely  five  minutes  before  the  time. 

"Good  evening,"  he  said,  greeting  Gail  in  a  man- 
ner so  pleasant  that  she  was  surprised.  "  You  don't 
think  that  you  will  be  at  all  frightened  to-night  — 
do  you?" 


AMONG   OTHER   THINGS,   A   QUEEK   DEBUT.    205 

"O,  no;  not  at  all,"  answered  Gail,  instinctively 
echoing  the  pleasant  tone. 

"  O,  indeed ! "  said  the  prompter,  still  pleasantly, 
though  a  little  in  a  manner  as  if  Gail  was  some- 
tiling  explosive,  and  must  be  handled  cautiously. 
"I  didn't  know  but  that  you  might;  that's  all. 
Excuse  my  asking.  It's  a  saying  with  us,  that  we 
must  all  have  stage  fright,  sooner  or  later,  and 
perhaps  your  turn  has  not  yet  come.  I  suffered 
awfully  myself  from  it,  when  I  first  went  on.  It 
appeared  —  O,  dear!  —  as  if  I  never  felt  such  a 
sensation  before." 

"  I  hope  I  shall  prove  an  exception,  at  least  for 
to-night,"  answered  Gail. 

"  I  hope  so,  my  dear,"  replied  the  prompter ;  and 
Gail  passed  on  to  her  room. 

"Did  you  see  that  notice  of  you  in  the  Com- 
pass?" asked  Isabel,  abruptly,  pointing  it  out  to 
her,  as  Gail  entered. 

"No,"  answered  Gail,  feeling  startled  in  a  sort 
of  electrical  manner.  "I  guess  you're  joking. 
Where  is  it?" 

"There!" 

Gail  read,  "  At  the  Union  Theatre,  the  bill  for 
Mr.  Haines's  benefit  announces  the  first  appearance 
of  a  lady  upon  any  stage.  These  first  appearances 
at  people's  benefits  are  generally  very  stupid  affairs, 


206  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

the  debutant  being  only  tolerated  out  of  respect 
for  the  beneficiary;  but  we  trust  this  lady  will 
prove  an  exception.  She  has  every  advantage  in 
her  selection  of  a  part  which  almost  acts  itself,  so 
to  speak.  Still,  there  are  reasons  why  the  choice 
may  be  unfortunate.  Miss  Fanny  Ceelems'  un- 
rivalled success  in  the  part,  her  nice  analysis  and 
powerful  rendering  of  the  emotional  scenes,  will 
be  remembered  by  all  who  listened  to  the  piece  at 
its  production  in  the  first  of  the  season ;  and  com- 
parisons will  naturally  arise,  greatly,  we  fear,  to  the 
present  aspirant's  disadvantage.  That  such  com- 
parisons are  odious  (especially  where  the  lady,  on 
the  one  hand,  is  but  a  novice,  while,  on  the  other, 
she  is  a  thorough  artist,  and  one  who  has  labored 
long  and  earnestly  to  prepare  herself  for  the  stage) 
will  not  admit  of  a  doubt.  But  that  they  will  and 
must  arise  is  equally  incontrovertible." 

"  Do  you  mark  that  ?  "  said  Isabel ;  " '  almost  acts 
itself !  That's  to  rob  you  of  any  credit  in  play- 
ing it." 

"He  gives  Miss  Ceelems  credit  for  acting  it, 
though.  'Nice  analysis  and  powerful  rendering' 
looks  that  way." 

"  I  suppose  you  know  who  put  that  in  ?  The 
Compass  has  taken  to  blowing  lately,  where  a  cer- 
tain lady  is  concerned,  and  sent  the  misguided  pub- 
lic adrift  with  a  breeze  of  its  own  creating." 


AMONG    OTHER    THINGS,   A   QUEER   DEBUT.     207 

"  Being  strictly  moral,"  said  Gail,  "  it  is,  or  ought 
to  be,  my  purpose  not  to  rival  Miss  Ceelems,  but  to 
render  the  part  as  it  reveals  itself  to  me." 

"You  are  awfully  unphilosophical,"  said  Mrs. 
Lester,  half  provoked.  "If  I  had  your  chance,  I'd 
pluck  that  poor  little  peacock  till  it  had  not  a 
feather  left.  You've  got  more  brains  and  talent, 
and  you  just  let  them  rust,  sheathed  in  your  pretty 
moral  theories.  I'll  bet  her  against  you  now,  in- 
ferior as  she  is.  Don't  you  see?  she  is  better 
advertised ;  people  are  prepared  to  like  her.  It's 
the  fashion,  and  human  nature  follows  the  fashion 
blindfold.  It's  a  mania  of  the  instinct." 

"  Now,  where  is  the  sense  of  exasperating  me  ?  " 
answered  Gail,  laughing.  "It's  too  late  to  raise 
me,  by  any  outside  lever,  to-night." 

"Well,  I'm  put  out  with  you,"  said  Isabel. 
"Why  didn't  you  let  Dalton  get  your  pictures 
taken?  I  heard  him,  talking  with  Lennox 
about  it." 

"  I  was  not  consulted." 

"  There  it  is  again,"  cried  Isabel.  "  These  man- 
agers .know  a  good  push  at  the  start  will  send  us 
straight  into  fame,  with  almost  no  effort  of  our 
own.  But  they  do  nothing ;  or,  worse,  they  drag 
you  back  till  you've  forced  yourself  beyond  their 
power,  and  then  nobody  is  so  ready  to  help." 


iOS  BEHIND   THE    SCENES. 

"Concealed  wisdom,"  said  Gail.  "They  push 
only  those  that  prove  themselves  capable  of  mak- 
ing a  good  hit." 

"  You'll  sing  another  song  after  the  performance, 
I'll  warrant." 

"  I  shall  not  sing  my  own  dirge,"  said  Gail,  with 
a  sudden  flash  of  triumph  in  her  eyes. 

The  curtain  rose  on  the  play  below,  and  the  ap- 
plause sounded  unusually  vigorous. 

"That  is  for  Clarisse,"  said  Isabel,  glancing  almost 
maliciously  at  Gail.  "Hear  the  fools  give  her 
their  hands.  They  will  not  throw  down  the  old 
idol  in  this  city  for  a  new  one.  They  will  cling  to 
her  with  all  her  faults,  the  closer  if  you  threaten 
them.  She  works  on  their  sympathies.  That  ap- 
plause is  more  than  half  to  assure  her  that  you 
will  not  share  her  laurels  to-night.  She  has  had 
her  own  story  to  circulate  both  outside  and  inside 
the  building,  you  may  be  sure." 

"  She  really  is  very  great  in  the  part,"  said  one 
of  the  ladies. 

"The  paper  speaks  very  'ighly  of  her,"  said 
Mrs.  Sands. 

"  You  hit  the  mark,"  continued  Isabel,  "  when 
you  said  managers  were  wise.  Lennox  knew  just 
how  far  to  bait  the  public  with  you  to  bring  them 
out  strong  on  her.  It  will  draw  well,  the  trick. 


AMONG    OTHER   THINGS,    A    QUEER   DEBUT.     209 

There,  that  is  Count  Priuli's  entrance  —  only  a 
round.  It  is  a  shame,  and  so  old  an  actor  too. 
That,  again,  is  because  he  brings  you  out." 

"  You  give  them  credit  for  too  little  indifference 
in  my  case.  They  would  be  wild  to  consider  me  a 
rival  to  an  old-established  favorite." 

"  Not  at  all.  You  don't  know  the  theatre  as  I 
do.  There  are  a  few  regular  comers,  who  are  the 
heart  of  the  audience.  The  public  at  large  is  only 
its  hands.  She  has  touched  the  heart  by  her 
stories  about  you,  and  the  heart  has  prompted  the 
hands  into  applause." 

"  Who  could  guess,  in  my  disguise,  that  I  was  a 
rival  ?  "  laughed  Gail ;  reflecting,  however,  some- 
what nervously,  on  the  supposed  prejudice  against 
her. 

"  What  are  you  looking  so  sober  for  ?  What  are 
you  doing  ?  praying  ?  "  asked  Isabel,  after  a  pause. 

"Yes,"  answered  Gail.     "I  am  praying." 

"Are  you  praying,"  said  Isabel,  comically, 
"that  you  may  succeed  to-night?" 

"Perhaps  so." 

','  My  God,  what  a  thing  to  pray  for ! "  said  one 
of  the  ladies.  "It's  really  wicked,  and  in  a  theatre, 
too !  I  wonder  you  ain't  afraid." 

"  Well,  pray,"  said  Isabel,  laughing,  "  that  your 
rival  may  get  her  just  due  —  defeat." 
14 


210  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"Too  late  for  that  now,"  answered  Gail,  in- 
wardly striving  to  banish  an  unpleasant  feeling  of 
jealousy  from  her  mind,  and  thinking  only  of  her 
true  aim.  "I'd  rather  pray  that  I  shan't  forget 
my  part." 

The  applause  rose  again. 

"Is  it  for  Clarisse?"  said  Gail. 

"  Yes.  It  is  the  scene  where  she  is  jealous,  and 
tears  up  her  fan." 

Gail  applauded  also. 

"  Amen,"  said  Isabel. 

In  the  next  room,  Julie  Ward,  dressing  for  the 
part  of  Kittie  Dillon,  sang  a  smart,  lively  air  over 
her  work.  Now  and  then  she  paused,  laughed 
gayly,  and  a  bright  color  flushed  her  face.  The 
little  dressing-glass  before  her  reflected  large,  lus- 
trous eyes,  shaded  by  long,  dark  eyelashes,  with  skin 
like  a  rose-petal  for  delicacy  of  tint  and  texture, 
and  the  sweet,  wondering  expression  of  youth  that 
just  half  reveals  the  charming  dream-world  in  the 
fresh,  opening  soul.  The  little  hand  that  passed 
through  the  shining  hair  was  snowy  white,  and  the 
dainty  fingers  tipped  by  the  pink  of  the  tiny  nails ; 
the  whole  figure  more  perfectly  modelled  than  any 
statue.  But  at  present  Julie  was  not  thinking  of 
the  pretty  face  in  the  glass.  She  was  dreaming  of 
a  pair  of  handsome  eyes,  and  a  laugh  and  voice  that 


AMONG   OTHER    THINGS,   A   QUEER   DEBUT.     211 

charmed  her.  She  broke  off  her  singing,  and  talked 
to  herself  as  she  used  to  talk  to  the  mouse.  "  I 
hope  he  won't  take  any  notice  of  me,  whatever  else 
he  does,"  she  said,  archly  shaking  the  golden  curls 
over  her  face.  "  If  he  does,  he'll  get  told  to  mind 
his  own  business  —  he  will,  truly;  so,  now, I  assure 
you ;  and  I  don't  care  if  he  is  a  great  manager." 
Julie  paused  to  sing  the  first  verse  of  her  song  over 
again,  with  a  more  sprightly,  saucy  expression. 
"  Come  up  on  purpose  to  see  him  ?  No,  I  thank 
you,  sir ! "  making  a  low  courtesy.  "  I  should  hope 
I  had  some  other  things  to  think  about.  Let  him. 
walk  home  with  me  ?  O,  no,  I  thank  you  again, 
sir ! "  with  another  courtesy ;  "  I  am  old  enough  to 
take  care  of  myself;"  and  Julie  glanced  into  the 
glass,  pursed  up  her  pretty  lips  saucily,  and  then, 
being  dressed,  tripped  down  stairs,  humming  the 
tune  she  had  sung.  Down  stairs,  she  peeped  shyly 
into  each  of  the  wings,  and  was  a  little  scared. 
So  she  ran  round  into  the  green-room.  "  I  like 
the  green-room,"  she  thought.  "It  is  light  there, 
and  the  people  are  always  pleasant,  and  like  to  see 
other  people ;  and  now  that's  so  much  better  than 
being  cross ! "  But  to-night,  when  Julie  took  a  look 
in  at  the  green-room  door,  she  whispered,  with 
demure  solemnity,  "  Everybody  seems  to  be  some- 
where else,  but  just  the  actors."  However,  Julie 


212  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

entered,  and  seated  herself.  The  objectionable 
actors  welcomed  her  with  compliments  that  did 
not  seem  as  charming  as  usual.  Julie  found  the 
room  lonely.  The  door  only  attracted  her.  She 
watched  it,  half  wistful  and  half  frightened ;  but 
no  figure  appeared,  except  that  of  Mr.  Haines,  the 
beneficiary,  whose  habit,  when  not  engaged  in  the 
piece,  was  to  haunt  the  stage  and  the  green-room 
with  a  solemn  sort  of  restlessness,  rehearsing  his 
part  in  a  sepulchral  under-tone.  He  appeared  and 
disappeared  so  many  times,  and  caused.  Julie  so 
much  trepidation  and  disappointment,  that  she 
murmured,  reproachfully,  "  He  needn't  do  that  the 
whole  time,  if  it  is  his  benefit."  She  wandered  out 
among  the  scenes  again.  It  was  lonely  there,  also, 
and  Julie  said  to  herself,  "I  believe  it  is  lonely 
everywhere,  except  in  the  direction  of  the  prompt- 
er's three  bright  lights,  and  that  is  too  near  his 
office.  It  would  not  do  at  all  to  go  and  stand 
there."  So  she  seated  herself  on  the  O.  P.  side, 
and  pretended  to  be  looking  very  hard  at  the  play. 
"  He  may  come  round  here,"  she  thought,  "  and  I'd 
have  him  to  know  that  people  feel  interested  in 
plays  sometimes,  though  this  play  is  not  a  bit  in- 
teresting, except  just  the  part  where  she  faints  and 
he  comes  in.  It's  kind  of  nice  about  that,  but  it 
don't  come  in  till  the  last  act."  Julie  sighed,  and 


AMONG  OTHER  THINGS,  A  QUEER  DEBUT.  213 

glanced  across  the  stage;  but  some  instinct  still 
kept  her  from  the  prompt  side.  She  rose,  stood 
in  one  of  the  big  wings,  and  began  drawing  lines 
with  her  fiugers  on  the  dusty  canvas.  "  I  wonder 
if  he  is  a  wicked  man  ?  "  she  mused.  "  Or  mar- 
ried ?  or  anything  horrid  ?  He  frightens  me.  Pie's 
not  like  Fred ;  but  then  Fred  was  only  a  child,  and, 
to  say  the  truth,  he's  not  like  another  big  boy  I  know, 
either,  who  is  almost  a  man  ;  but  then  the  least  I 
say  about  him,  the  better,  for  he's  not  a  very  edify- 
ing subject,  if  his  name  is  William.  He's  different 
from  those.  He's  a  great  deal  handsomer."  Julie 
crossed  and  recrossed  her  lines,  and  her  face  began 
to  look  less  sober.  "If  he  thought  I  was  pretty 
when  I  had  on  only  my  old  clothes,  I  wonder  what 
he  will  think  now  that  I  am  all  dressed  up  in  my 
peasant's  dress,  with  flowers  in  my  hair?"  She 
drew  a  circle  round  the  lines,  and  started,  and 
drew  her  hand  away  quickly,  for  she  heard,  not  far 
off,  the  voice  she  had  had  in  her  mind.  The  same 
instinct  that  had  made  her  keep  away  from  the 
lights  caused  her  to  turn  and  try  to  escape ;  but 
she  was  too  late.  The  manager's  imposing  figure 
already  stood  in  the  entrance. 

"Not  running  away  from  me,  Julie,  I  hope  ?"  he 
said,  stopping  her,  and  forcing  her  to  look  into  hia 
face. 


214  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  talk  to  me,"  replied  Julie, 
coquettishly. 

"  Now  that's  too  bad !  because,  Julie,  you  are  irre- 
sistible. Come  here ;  I  want  to  see  how  you  look ;" 
and  Lennox,  drew  Julie  into  one  of  the  empty 
dressing-rooms  adjoining  the  stage,  used  only  dur- 
ing the  engagement  of  stars,  and  closed  the  door. 

"  Why,  your  heart  beats  like  a  rabbit  in  a  trap. 
You're  not  afraid  of  me !  That  would  be  non- 
sense." 

"I'm  not  much  afraid  of  anybody,"  answered 
Julie,  with  a  pretty  toss  of  her  curls;  "but  — 
glancing    nervously    at    the    closed     door   never- 
theless. 

"  There's  nothing  there,"  said  the  manager,  seat- 
ing himself  between  Julie  and  the  door,  and 
placing  Julie  before  him. 

"  I  know  it,"  responded  Julie ;  "  but  hadn't  we 
better  have  it  opened  ?  Stage  business,  Mr.  Man- 
ager, you  know." 

"I'll  take  care  of  that,  Julie.  Besides,"  he  added, 
with  a  laugh,  "  I'm  not  going  to  devour  you,  ex- 
cept with  my  eyes ;  and  I'm  not  going  to  keep  you 
long.  Where  do  you  live,  Julie?  Who  takes 
care  of  you  ?  Paternal  and  maternal  relatives,  I 
suppose." 

"  No,"  answered  Julie,  alarmed  as  she  pictured 


AMONG  OTHER  THINGS,  A  QUEER  DEBUT.  215 

tlio  formidable  trio  at  home.  "I  hope  you  don't 
intend  to  call,"  she  thought ;  "  because,  if  you  do, 
I'm  afraid  you'll  find  me  out,  and  the  minds  of  the 
others  fixed  upon  higher  things.  —  There's  only 
me  and  step-mother,"  she  added,  softly,  not  consid- 
ering it  necessary  to  mention  the  two  Meshers. 

"  Step-mother  kind  to  you  ?  "  continued  the  man- 
ager. 

"  I  fear  sh6  is,"  said  Julie,  "  to  my  immortal  soul ; 
but  she  don't  think  much  of — of — me  —  myself." 

"  She  don't  beat  you  —  does  she,  Julie  ?  " 

"  O,  no ;  not  now,"  replied  Julie,  blushing ;  "  I'm 
too  large." 

"  How  old  are  you,  Julie  ?  " 

"  Horrid  old !  "  said  Julie,  with  a  happy  shade  of 
vanity ;  "  way  sixteen." 

"  Who  comes  to  see  you  ?  Plenty  of  young  men, 
I'll  be  bound." 

"Is  catechism  most  over?"  put  in  Julie,  archly, 
but  secretly  anxious  to  change  the  subject;  "or 
have  we  got  to  come  to,  *  Who  went  into  the  ark  ? ' 
And  I  don't  so  much  mind  that,  either,"  added 
Julie  aside,  "  if  it  doesn't  end  in, '  Who  comes  out 
of  the  back  upper  window  ? '  for,  to  say  the  truth, 
I'm  not  in  the  habit  of  sneaking  out  at  the  front 
door,  and  I  don't  like  to  see  it." 

"  We  haven't  got  by,  '  Who  was  the  first  man?' 
yet,  Julie.  Let's  have  your  answer." 


216  BEHIND    THB    SCENES. 

"You  don't  happen  to  mean,  who  was  the  first 
big  boy  —  do  you?  There's  no  first  man.  There's 
only  just  a  tall  boy ;  and  he  don't  call,"  added  Julie, 
laughing. 

"O,  there's  a  tall  boy,  eh?"  said  the  manager. 
"Well,  what  does  your  tall  boy  do,  Julie?  Put 
his  arm  round  you,  so  ?  and  draw  you  to  him,  so  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  guess  he  don't.  I  should  put  my  hand 
on  his,  so  !  and  so !  and  so ! "  slapping  the  hand 
that  held  her  round  the  waist,  smartly.  . 

The  manager  laughed.  "By  Jove,  Julie,"  he 
said,  "if  your  tall  boy  don't  catch  it  worse  than 
that,  he'll  do  so  again,  some  time,  when  you're  not 
minding." 

•  "You  mustn't  call  him  a  tall  boy,  when  his  name 
is  William  all  the  while,"  laughed  Julie,  merrily. 
She  was  beginning  to  feel  more  at  ease,  and  very 
happy. 

"  O,  his  name  is  William  —  is  it  ?  "  said  the  man- 
ager, still  embracing  Julie. 

"Do  let  me  go !  "  said  Julie,  frightened  again  at 
this.  "  I'm  afraid  I'll  scream  if  you  don't." 

"  Now,  Julie,  you  don't  mean  that.  Come,  stay 
so  —  won't  you  ? "  said  Lennox,  with  a  tone  and 
look  that  entered  the  poor  child's  soul  like  wine, 
and  made  her  feel  light  and  gay.  She  answered, — 

"  Well,  then,  Will  blushes  dreadfully  when  he 


AMONG    OTHER    THINGS,    A    QUEER   DEBUT.     217 

sees  your  humble  servant,  and  walks,  first  before, 
and  then  behind,  till  I  get  so  nervous  I  don't  know 
what  to  do;  and  I  just  say  to  him,  'Did  you  come 
out  here  to  see  me,  or  somebody  else?' just  to  help 
him  on,  you  know ;  because,"  added  Julie,  saucily, 
"he's  not  near  so  bold  as  you  are,  to  say  nothing 
of  his  being  a  great  deal  handsomer" 

"  Is  that  so,  Julie  ?     Well,  what  next  ?  " 

"  Well,  next  he  says,  '  M —  m —  miss,  shall  I 
carry  your  book  ?  It  m —  m —  must  be  heavy.' 
Then  I  smile  sweet  and  sentimental  like,  and  hand 
him  my  play-book,  which  he  always  drops,  blush- 
ing still  more ;  because  you  know,"  insinuated 
Julie,  cunningly,  "  it's  so  awfully  heavy." 

"Upon  my  soul,  Julie  ! "  said  the  manager,  "  I'm 
afraid  you're  destroying  Will's  peace  of  mind." 

"And  then,"  continued  Julie,  glancing  at  her 
companion  roguishly,  "  I  say,  Stupid  !  although 
Will  isn't  that,  because  he  goes  to  the  high  school, 
and  knows  Latin,  and  lots." 

"My  God,  Julie!"  said  Lennox,  "go  home. 
You're  enough  to  tempt  a  saint." 

"  What !  right  away,  now,  before  the  play,  do 
you  mean  ?  "  asked  Julie,  alarmed  by  the  tone,  but 
still  with  a  shade  of  coquetry. 

"No,  my  child;  I  don't  mean  that;  but  you're 
so  young,  and  know  so  little  of  the  world;  and  one 


218  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

of  these  days  you  might  make  some  poor  tall  boy 
a  charming  little  wife ;  and  upon  my  soul,  I  don't 
want  to  do  you  harm." 

"  But  you  needn't — need  you  ?  "  whispered  Julie, 
caressingly. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,  Julie ;  if  I  saw  much 
of  you,  my  resolution  would  go  to  the  dogs ;  for, 
deuce  take  it,  Julie,  you're  the  most  bewitching 
little  woman  I  ever  met." 

Julie  was  not  simple :  what  the  manager  said 
had  to  her,  in  a  vague,  unlearned  way,  its  true  sig- 
nificance ;  but  she  loved  him,  and  when  his  words 
took  from  her  her  purer  hope,  she  was  bewildered 
and  alarmed,  and  in  the  moment  of  danger  in- 
stinctively clung  to  her  false  love.  She  added  low, 
and  almost  in  spite  of  herself,  — 

"  You  don't  think  so,  or  you  wouldn't  send  me 
away.  You  think  I'm  one  of  those  people  that 
are  just  ordinarily  good-looking." 

"  Now,  damn  it,  Julie,"  whispered  Lennox,  "  you 
know  better  than  that." 

"Don't  use  words,"  said  Julie;  "it's  wicked. 
Yes,  you  do  ;  you  want  to  send  me  away,  and  you 
want  never  again  to  say  pleasant  things  to  me ; " 
and  Julie  put  her  two  arms  around  the  manager's 
neck,  and  looked  beseechingly  into  his  face. 

"  Now,  I'll  be  d —  blessed  if  flesh  and  blood  can 


AMONG    OTHER    THING%S,   A   QUEER    BEBUT.   219 

resist  this,"  said  Lennox.  "  Julie,  don't  you  want  a 
lover?" 

"  I  don't  want  him  for  my  lover,"  answered  Julie, 
naively. 

"No,  hang  it,  Julie,  I  don't,  either;  take  me. 
I'll  do  for  a  lover,  after  a  sort,  I  dare  say." 

"  You  sent  me  away,  and  I'm  going  home,"  said 
Julie,  trying  to  still  the  beating  of  her  heart. 

"I  don't  know  about  that!  I  don't  think  you 
can,  just  now.  Try  !  " 

Julie  made  an  effort,  but  the  arms  that  held  her 
were  powerful.  The  manager  bent  over  her  and 
kissed  her.  "  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  he  said, 
"  you  'and  I.  We'll  get  a  sleigh  and  some  fine 
horses,  and  go  to  ride  after  the  rehearsal  to-mor- 
row ;  and  we'll  find  some  pleasanter  place  to  take 
supper  than  step-mam's,  eh !  You'll  go,  Julie  — 
won't  you?" 

"  "Would  you  go,  if  y*m  was  me  ?  I  should  like 
to.  It  would  be  fun,"  cried  Julie,  striving  to  blind 
herself,  and  plunge  into  her  false  happiness  with  a 
reckless  gayety  that  was  at  heart  so  sad,  and  that, 
with  all  its  assumed  simplicity  and  coquetry,  had 
in  it  a  shading  of  earnest  appeal.  The  man  felt 
this  and  was  silent,  but  only  for  an  instant.  A 
glance  at  the  lustrous  eyes,  and  he  whispered,  "I 
shall  have  that  sleigh  around  by  two  o'clock  to- 
morrow." 


220  BEHIND    TIIE    SCENES. 

"Well,"  answered  Julie,  trembling  with  agita- 
tion ;  "perhaps  I'll  go ;  I'll  see  about  it ;  but  there's 
one  thing,  you  —  you  mustn't  ride  in  the  street 
where  I  live,  because  —  because  —  " 

"  I'll  take  care  of  that,"  said  the  manager,  with 
a  laugh. 

"  Yes,  I  will  go ;  I  will,"  said  Julie,  with  a  sudden 
tenderness ;  "  because  I  love  you  so  —  I  do.  You 
love  me  too  —  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do.  My  God,  Julie,  what  man 
could  help  it?  You  are  the  most  charming,  fas- 
cinating, irresistible  little  angel  that  ever — "  The 
manager  stopped  his  utterance  with  a  kiss,  and 
added  to  himself,  "that  ever  tempted  a  man  into 
sin,  and  sent  him  to  the  devil.  —  Love  you,  Julie?" 
he  said  aloud.  "  Yes  !  "  and  Lennox  drew  Julie 
upon  his  knee,  and  kissed  her  again  and  again. 

"  You  won't  forget  it,"  whispered  Julie,  leaning 
her  head  against  the  manager's  shoulder.  "You 
won't,  you  won't  —  will  you  ?  You'll  promise  me 
you  won't.  I  mean  for  always.  O,  Lenny !  Lenny  ! 
Lenny!  I  love  you  so!  I  love  you  so!  I'd  go 
and  break  my  heart  if  you  did!"  She  drew  the 
manager's  face  down  to  hers,  and  caressed  it  with 
her  cheek  and  hands,  and  said,  reproachfully,  "  I  am 
real  wicked  to  keep  being  afraid,  and  teasing  you, 
and  all  that ;  but  you  don't  mind  it  —  do  you  ?  Say 


AMONG    OTHER    THINGS,   A    QUEER   DEBUT.   221 

you  don't  mind  it.  Let  me  hear  you  say  so.  There, 
'  now !  I'm  going  to  run  away,"  she  added,  capri- 
ciously. "  I  want  to  wash  my  eyes  so  that  they 
won't  see  I've  been  crying;  that  would  be  so  hor- 
rid, you  know." 

"There's  no  hurry,  Julie,"  said  Lennox.  "Stay 
a  bit ;  kiss  me  again,  and  try  to  laugh.  I  want  to 
see  you  merry  before  I  let  you  go." 

Julie  complied  with  a  shy,  timid  sweetness  ;  but 
her  lip  quivered,  and  there  was  a  shade  of  despair 
in  her  face. 

"  Well,  now  go,  my  darling,"  whispered  Lennox  ; 
"  but  by  Jove  you  must  run  quick,  or  I  shall  keep 
you  here  all  night,  and  play  the  deuce  with  the 
piece." 

The  manager  rose,  opened  the  door,  and  Julie 
slipped  out. 

Left  to  his  own  reflections,  Thomas  Lennox  was 
not  at  all  at  his  ease.  It  was  not  his  heart  that 
was  hungry.  Julie's  beauty,  and  her  fresh,  piquant 
manner  bewitched  him,  while  the  love  she  was  so 
ready  to  cast  at  his  feet  -troubled  and  even  an- 
noyed him.  Her  youth,  the  touching  pathos  of  her 
weak  nature,  and  her  strong,  hopeless  love,  haunted 
him  ;  but  he  lit  his  cigar,  tossed  off  a  glass  of  wine 
or  two,  and  found  it  easier  to  drown  this  one  care 
than  to  banish  from  his  mind  the  girl's  enchanting 


222  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

grace,  or  cast  out  the  passion  that  made  him  im- 
patient for  the  morrow. 

Julie,  when  she  found  herself  outside  the  door, 
was  frightened  and  oppressed  with  a  shame  that 
made  her  want  to  hide  her  face,  and  slip  off  to  her 
dressing-room  unseen.  The  stage,  with  the  voices 
on  it,  sounding  strange  and  distant,  seemed  so 
lonely  and  cold,  that  it  struck  a  chill  into  her 
fevered  brain,  and  she  shivered ;  but  Julie,  as  she 
ran  off  to  her  room,  did  not  cover  her  face ;  she 
tossed  back  her  curls  with  a  gay,  defiant  little 
laugh ;  and  as  she  stood  before  her  glass,  smoothing 
her  creased  dress,  and  arranging  her  tumbled  hair, 
she  sang  a  gay,  reckless  song  —  a  song  that  re- 
peated, "  O,  a  short  life  and  a  merry  life  for  me." 
She  thought  of  her  ride,  a  wild,  free  ride,  over 
the  long  snow-covered  roads,  all  glowing  with  the 
bold  kiss  of  the  winter's  sun,  and  her  song  rang  out 
yet  more  clear.  She  thought  of  her  lover's  hand- 
some eyes,  and  the  clasp  of  his  arm,  that  would  be 
all  hers  for  one  brief  afternoon,  and  the  song  grew 
low  and  tremulous.  She  thought  of  her  own  de- 
ceit, and  the  stern,  forbidding  faces  at  home,  and 
the  song  died  on  her  lips.  Her  own  face  became 
anxious  with  care,  but  her  heart,  after  its  own  fash- 
ion, echoed  the  words  of  Macbeth,  "  I  am  in  guilt 
stepped  in  so  far,  that,  should  I  wade  no  more,  re- 


AMONG   OTHER   THINGS,   A  QCTEEE  DEBUT.      223 

turning  were  as  tedious  as  go  o'er."  Julie  hummed 
her  song,  and  by  and  by  a  sly  smile  began  to  play 
around  her  lips,  as  she  thought,  "What  would 
Will,  or  some  of  the  actors  and  actresses,  think,  if 
they  should  see  me  riding  with  him  /  wouldn't  they 
be  jealous  ?  "  Julie's  dress  and  hair  were  in  order ; 
still  she  did  not  descend.  She  seated  herself  before 
her  toilet  shelf,  and  dallied  with  the  articles  there, 
still  singing,  but  with  a  voice  that  was  low,  and  at 
times  broken,  till  the  song  again  faded,  and  Julie 
found  herself  sobbing  and  trembling. 

It  was  not  the  all-powerful  monarch,  throned  in 
a  gold-paved  celestial  city,  with  white-robed,  sing- 
ing angels  to  do  him  homage,  the  omnipotent 
spirit,  —  not  of  nature  and  human  nature,  but  far 
above  them,  —  that  the  child  had  been  taught  to 
fear  and  worship,  that  awed  the  woman  now. 
Neither  was  it  Satan,  in  a  world  of  burning  tor- 
ture, that  she  shrank  from,  as  the  child  had  done. 
It  was  simply  an  instinct  of  conscience,  or  purity. 
For  a  time  the  groping  soul  bowed  before  this  nat- 
ural messenger  of  God,  and  feared,  as  a  child  in  the 
dark  might,  before  an  angel  sent  from  heaven  with 
a  warning.  .Only  to  poor  Julie,  with  her  new  love, 
the  messenger  seemed  cruel,  rather  a  fiend  than 
an  angel.  She  tried  to  banish  it  from  her  mind, 
and  dream  on,  as  the  child,  hiding  its  terrified  eyes 


224  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

beneath  the  bed-clothes,  had  striven  not  to  see  the 
phantoms  of  its  nightmare.  But  there  were  no 
bright  home  spirits  to  awaken  the  woman  into  a 
natural  sunny  reality,  as  there  had  been  for  the 
child.  There  was  no  gray-haired  father,  whose  fncc, 
when  he  should  learn  her  guilt,  would  turn  pnle 
with  pain  and  surprise  ;  no  brother,  into  whose 
heart,  all  young  and  fresh  for  joy,  should  spring  the 
passion  and  fever  of  a  just  wrath  against  her  se- 
ducer ;  no  mother,  to  be  made  anxious  and  watchful 
by  the  sorrowing  faces  about  her ;  no  group  of  won- 
dering little  ones,  crying  and  pitying  her  for  they 
knew  not  what;  no  companion  sister,  whose  loving 
eyes  should  fill  with  tears,  and  whose  quivering  lips 
should  say,  "  It  is  still  our  own  Julie,  that  used  to 
play  with  us,  and  that,  with  God's  help,  we  will 
still  love  and  protect."  Julie  had  no  such  picture 
to  help  her  now,  in  her  hour  of  need.  So  she 
sr.ng,  to  banish  the  phantoms  conjured  by  her  con- 
science, in  the  darkness  of  her  blind,  doubting  soul, 
and  clung  to  her  love;  excused,  idealized  her 
lover ;  and  even  rebuked  herself  for  heeding  the 
instincts  that  condemned  him.  It  was  not  only 
Julie's  vanity  that  fluttered  about  the.  false  light ; 
her  cheated  heart  crept  also  to  it  for  warmth. 

The  play  of  Retribution  went  on  successfully. 
Miss  Ceelems  stood  in  the  green-room,  her  face 


AMONG    OTHER   THINGS,    A   QUEER   DEBUT.      225 

radinnt  with  triumph.  The  green-room  table  was 
heaped  with  floral  offerings.  "Dear  me!  What 
shall  I  do  with  all  this?"  cried  Miss  Ceelems, 
appealing  to  the  manager  and  two  newspaper 
critics,  who  were  present.  "  They  are  truly  lovely, 
and  I  adore  flowers;  but  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to 
abandon  the  profession,  and  engage  in  the  flori- 
cultural  line." 

"  Don't,  for  God's  sake,  yet  a  while,"  answered 
Lennox. 

"  Madam,  you  would  rob  the  stage  of  one  of  its 
brightest  gems,"  said  one  of  the  critics,  who  pos- 
sessed a  ready  wit. 

"The  very  brightest?  said  his  companion,  who 
possessed  another.  "  For  what  gem  can  be  brighter 
than  a  star?" 

"  Stars  shine  with  a  borrowed  light,"  said  Cee- 
lems, with  a  confident  impression  that  all  stars 
were  planets ;  "  and  I  feel  sure  I  owe  my  lustre  to 
the  generous  friendship  of  you,  gentlemen." 

"A  very  bright  idea,  truly,"  said  one  of  the 
gentlemen,  suppressing,  with  an  effort,  his  better 
knowledge  of  astronomy. 

"And  one  worthy  the  source  from  whence  it 
sprang,"  remarked  the  other. 

"O,  gentlemen,  for  shame;  you  flatter!"  cried 
the  actress. 

15 


226  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"I  do  not,  for  one,"  said  the  gentleman  who  had 
last  spoken. 

The  debutante  slipped  quietly  down  from  her 
dressing-room,  and  took  her  usual  seat  on  the  steps. 
No  one  observed  her.  She  saw  Miss  Ceelems'  tri- 
umphant face,  the  manager's  elated  manner;  heard 
the  critic's  flattery,  and  the  applause  of  the  crowd 
in  front ;  and  she  began  to  lose  confidence.  Her 
judgment  did  not  sanction  Miss  Ceelems'  render- 
ing of  the  part.  The  scene  then  on  the  stage  was 
the  one  in  which  Clarisse,  fascinated  by  Count 
Priuli,  and  tossed  by  doubt  and  jealousy  of  her 
husband,  receives  the  Count.  The  Count's  purpose 
is  to  ruin  the  wife  to  avenge  himself  on  the  hus- 
band. Clarisse  is  a  weak  woman,  and  the  emotion 
first  to  be  rendered  is  the  creeping,  shuddering 
presentiment  of  the  Count's  approach.  Then  fol- 
lows the  terror  with  which  she  is  overcome  in  his 
presence.  She  lowers  her  voice,  glances  stealthily 
aroimd,  and  asks  him  if  he  is  sure  no  one  saw  him 
enter.  On  the  Count's  assuring  her  that  he  has 
been  unperceived,  she  implores  him,  in  wild,  broken 
sentences,  to  leave  her.  The  Count  makes  a  show 
of  doing  so,  when,  again  yielding  to  the  fascina- 
tion he  exerts  over  her,  she  reaches  out  her  hand, 
and  utters  his  name  tenderly  and  helplessly. 
When  he  returns  to  her,  Clarisse  expresses,  with  a 


AMONG    OTHER    THIXGS,    A    QUEER   DEBUT.    227 

sudden  blind  fervor,  the  terrible  influence  he  holds 
over  her.  At  the  close  of  the  recital,  sinking  with 
shame,  and  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  she 
pictures,  with  equal  intensity,  the  ruin  that  must 
result  from  yielding  to  her  passion.  Miss  Ceelems 
rendered  this  scene  with  none  of  the  change  and 
shading  of  emotion  necessary.  She  depended  on 
attitudes  for  effect,  and  did  not  depend  on  the  pas- 
sion to  inspire  the  attitudes.  Her  emotion  was 
simply  stagy.  Nevertheless  the  scene  ended  in 
a  good  round  of  applause,  and  Retribution  con- 
tinued in  triumph  to  its  close.  The  green  curtain 
fell ;  and  Gail  began  to  feel  a  very  unpleasant  sen- 
sation of  suspense.  There  was  a  vociferous  call 
for  Clarisse  and  the  Count.  Poor  Gail  was  pushed 
aside  into  a  dark  recess,  while  her  rival,  led  by  the 
Count,  swept  majestically  past  to  the  stage,  courte- 
sied  low,  cast  her  eyes  swiftly  over  the  parquet, 
favored  the  audience  with  an  emotional  smile 
expressive  of  her  gratitude  and  agitation,  and 
retired.  Gail  came  out  of  her  recess,  and  crept 
still  higher  up  the  steps,  that  she  might  be  out  of 
the  way  of  the  carpenters,  who  were  setting  the 
stage.  For  a  while  all  tangible  doubts  and  reason- 
ings fled  from  her  mind  before  one  sickening,  pain- 
ful dread.  With  a  fast-beating  heart,  she  prayed 
that  if  she  could  not  triumph,  she  might  at  least 


228  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

be  spared  from  a  disgraceful  failure.  The  men 
hurried  their  work.  The  characters  and  peasants 
of  the  piece  gathered  on  the  stage.  Gail  descended 
dizzily,  and  took  her  place  among  them.  The 
prompter  rang  the  first  bell.  Gail's  breath  came 
and  went  quick,  and  the  stage  seemed  to  grow 
dark.  She  strove  to  hold  her  lip  and  hand  still, 
and  bend  her  mind  to  the  first  line  of  her  part. 
She  had  a  vague  impression  that  some  one  said  in 
her  ear,  "You  are  a  little  scared,  my  dear;  but 
never  mind  :  you'll  get  over  it  after  the  first  word." 

"Are  you  ready?"  said  the  prompter.  "She 
doesn't  hear.  O,  my  God!  this  will  never  do! 
The  lady  is  going  to  faint." 

Gail  raised  her  hand  a  little  proudly  and  impa- 
tiently. "  Ring  up ! "  she  said ;  "  I  am  ready." 

"O,  all  right,  my  dear,"  replied  the  prompter. 
"  I  only  wanted  an  answer." 

The  second .  bell  sounded.  Gail's  heart  stood 
still.  The  curtain  rose  swiftly.  She  felt  the 
warmth  of  the  foot-lights  against  her  cold  cheeks, 
and  was  blindly  conscious  of  the  mass  of  faces 
and  the  flutter  of  fans  and  programmes  before  her. 
There  was  a  dead  silence.  Not  one  hand  greeted 
her.  The  players  glanced  at  one  another,  and 
whispered,  "  Shame ! "  Miss  Ceelems,  in  the  wing, 
chatted  yet  more  lively  with  the  manager.  The 
play  began. 


AMOXG    OTHER    THINGS,    A    QUEER   DEBUT.    2li9 

Peter.  "  Now,  Neddy,  give  us  the  reel  of  Tully- 
ugly.  Strike  it  up,  man.  It's  the  finest  tune  you 
know." 

Set.  "Bedad,  that's  true  for  you,  Pety.  But 
it's  yourself  that  knows  what's  what." 

Nan.    "  Ketch  Paty  ever  making  a  mistake  about ' 
the  purtiness  of  a  chune,  or  anything  else,"  glan- 
cing at  Nelly."     [Bus.     Dennis  advances  towards 
Nelly  as  if  to  ask  her  to  dance,  but  Pety  is  too 
quick  for  him.] 

Peter.     "Sure,  you'll  be  my  partner,  Nelly?" 

A  clear,  natural  voice  answered,  with  the  proud, 
shy  dignity  of  the  character,  "  It  isn't  fair  to  ask 
me  to  dance  so  often,  Pety."  The  spell  was 
broken.  It  was  no  longer  the  frightened  debutante 
whom  an  apathetic  public  refused  to  cheer,  but 
the  village  favorite,  the  proud,  earnest  girl,  full  of 
fresh  enjoyment  of  the  dance,  shaded  by  an  anxiety 
for  her  reckless  lover  and  friend.  The  audience 
began  to  manifest  unusual  interest  in  the  scene. 
The  music  and  dance  commenced.  Bet  whispered 
to  Nelly,  as  she  chassed  past  her,  "Don't  rnind 
their  not  applauding,  my  dear.  It's  only  because 
yours  is  a  strange  face;"  and,  in  another  turn, 
"You  stood  among  the  others,  and  they  didn't 
know  you.  It's  often  so."  But  Gail,  as  Nelly,  was 
thinking  of  a  wild  country  and  the  power  of  law- 


230  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

less  men.  She  drew  Peter  aside  when  the  dance 
was  over,  and,  throwing  all  the  earnestness  of  the 
character,  and  the  foreshadowing  of  evil,  into  her 
utterance,  she  whispered  distinctly,  "  For  the  love 
of  all  that's  good,  Pety,  don't  go  with  the  boys  to 
the  still  to-night.  I  heard  that  the  ganger's  men 
are  hunting  close  upon  it,  and  there'll  be  murder 
surely." 

The  scenes  changed,  one  for  the  other.  There 
was  still  a  silence  in  the  audience ;  but  it  was  the 
applause  of  a  strict  attention.  Poor  Nelly's  fate 
was  followed,  step  by  step,  till  the  last  sad  phase 
of  her  story.  She  sits  in  Bet  Fagan's  house, 
facing  alone  the  inevitable  death  she  feels  approach- 
ing, proud  and  stony,  dead  already  in  soul,  as 
it  were.  The  priest's  revelation  has  been  made, 
and  Nelly's  family  and  neighbors  enter  joyfully. 
She  rises  slowly,  and  stands  before  them,  pale  and 
motionless,  with  an  outstretched  hand. 

Dillon.  "Nelly,  my  own  jewel,  youll  come 
home  to  your  father  once  more." 

Mrs.  Dillon.  "And  it's  Dinnie  Ryan  that's  a 
happy  man  this  day." 

Dennis  rushes  in,  and  attempts  to  seize  Nelly's 
hand.  The  congealed  blood  seems  to  spring  at 
once  into  Nelly's  veins.  She  gathers  all  the  an- 
guish, the  outraged  love  and  pride,  the  bitter 


AMONG    OTHER    THINGS,    A    QUEER   DEBUT.      231 

shame  and  suffering  into  two  words,  and  hurls 
them  at  Dennis's  feet  in  one  scornful,  mad 
flash. 

"  Keep  back,  Dennis  Ryan ! "  The  hearts  of 
the  audience  seemed  to  leap  into  their  hands,  and 
there  was  one  tremendous  burst  of  applause.  No 
muscle  of  Gail's  face  changed.  She  still  stands, 
until,  with  a  wild,  bewailing  sob,  she  criesy"Keep 
back,  all  of  you.  You're  nothing  to  me,  and  I  am 
nothing  to  you." 

Bet.     "Nelly!  dear  Nelly!" 

Nelly,  bowing  for  an  instant  under  the  flood  of 
her  passion,  moves  her  lips  mutely,  and  then,  with 
an  effort,  repeats,  "  Ay,  nothing  to  me,  and  I  am 
nothing  to  you."  . 

Dillon.  "  Yes,  ye  are ;  ye  are  the  same  to  me 
as  ever  ye  were ;  ye're  my  own  pet  child  again." 

Nelly.  (Freezing?)  "  But  you  are  not  the  same 
to  me." 

Dillon.  "I  am,  I  am,  my  poor  child.  Your 
father's  house  is  there,  ready  to  resave  ye." 

Nelly.  (Passionately.)  "Never,  never  will  I 
cross  the  threshold  of  the  door  that  shut  me  out 
in  the  dark  night.  No,  Pat  Dillon,  I'm  your 
daughter  no  longer."  (  With  wild  emotion)  "  I've 
no  father,  no  mother,  no  brother,  no  sister.  I 
haven't  one  to  love  me  but  the  man  that  will  be 


232  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

hung  in  the  front  of  Clonmel  Jail  the  day  after  to- 
morrow." 

Bet.    "Nelly,  acushla!" 

Nelly.  ( Taking  Be£s  hand,  and  speaking  with 
bitter  grief.) .  "  You  were  kind  to  me,  Bet  Fagan  ; 
and  you,  Norry  Croon,  knew  me  better  than  my 
own  people.  You  trusted  me  more  than  the  man 
that  wanted  me  for  his  wife ;  but  still  there  wasn't 
one  among  you  all  that  loved  and  trusted  me  like 
Peter  Fogarty."  ( With  sudden  breathless  inten- 
sity.) "  With  all  his  crimes  on  his  head,  and  great 
a  wrong  as  he  has  done  me,  and  great  a  sorrow  as 
he  has  given  my  heart,  I'd  marry  him  this  day  in 
Father  McCabe's  chapel,  if  he  was  here,  free  and 
out  of  prison." 

Dillon.     "  You  come  home  this  minute." 

Nelly.  "Never!  never!  If  there  wasn't  an- 
other roof  to  shelter  me  in  the  world,  I'd  perish 
rather  than  put  a  foot  in  your  house ! "  (  With 
softened  grief  and  tears.)  "I  loved  you  once, 
father;  I  loved  you  so  well  that  I  broke  my  own 
heart  for  you.  I  did  what  I  could  to  forget  the 
boy  that  was  dear  to  me  for  many  a  long  year, 
just  because  you  didn't  like  him,  and  I  strove  to 
like  another  till  I  did  like  him,  and  I  gave  him  my 
promise  to  rnarry  him,  and  God  sees  it  was  a  prom- 
ise I'd  have  kept,  but  I'm  sorry  to  the  heart  that 


AMONG    OTHER    THINGS,    A    QUEEK   DEBUT.      233 

ever  I  did  the  like ;  for  the  love  I  threw  away  was 
the  only  true  love  among  ye  all.  O,  Peter, — 
robber,  murderer  that  ye  are,  —  I'd  marry  ye  this 
minute,  if  ye  was  here  to  take  me ;  but  we'll  be 
together  soon  enough." 

(Dillon  tries  to  seize  her  hand,  but  is  held  back.) 

Set.  "Ye'll  not  lay  a  finger  on  her.  Ye've 
desarved  this ;  for  ye  was  like  Turks  to  her,  and  ye 
know  it."  (Nelly  staggers  to  arm-chair,  and  sinks 
into  it  senseless.) 

Norry.  "She's  dying  —  she's  dying;  lave  the 
house,  all  of  ye."  (The  crowd  fall  back.) 

Mrs.  Dillon.  "  O,  God  forgive  us  !    O,  my  child ! " 

Dillon.  (Falling  on  his  knees.)  "  Nelly,  Nelly, 
won't  ye  look  on  yer  own  father,  and  say  ye  for- 
give him  ?  " 

Bet.  "  Sure '  she's  not  herself;  it's  her  mind 
wanders." 

Nelly.  (Repeating  the  delirious  fancies  of  her 
recent  illness.)  "  I  can  see  the  chimneys  of  our 
house,  but  it  is  still  so  far  off.  O,  the  grass  is 
cold  under  my  feet.  Sure!  Sure!  Sure!  It  is 
the  moan  of  the  river  that  wearies  me.  If  I  could 
cross  to  the  other  side  —  It  is  so  dark,  here  — 
O,  help !  the  path  is  so  steep  here —  I  am  falling. 
O,  father  —  mother  —  help  ! " 

Mrs.  Dillon.    "  Mother  's  here,  child !  and  father 


284  BEHIND   THE    SCENES. 

too.  It's  your  father,  Nellie ;  it's  just  your  poor 
owld  father  that's  a  knaling  here,  and  a  begging  of 
ye  to  take  a  thought  of  him.  O,  Nellie !  look  up. 
It's  standing  by  the  River  Jordan,  ye  are.  O  God ! 
O,  darlint,  don't  cross  to  the  shining  shore  beyant, 
and  lave  us  here  in  the  dark,  with  them  words 
ye  said  always  a  sounding  to  us!  Look  at  him. 
Alanah !  Just  open  yer  swate  dear  eyes  and  look 
at  him.  Ye  was  oncet  his  pet.  Sure  I  mind  the 
day,  darlint,  whin  ye'd  run  to  him  wid  the  look  of 
his  eye ;  whin  ye'd  play  all  day  wid  him  in  the 
field,  wid  the  posies  in  yer  pritty  curls.  Will  ye 
take  a  thought  of  it  now,  darlint  ?  Think  what 
yer  laving  him  to.  Think  of  the  poor  crushed 
heart  of  him,  always  a  hungering  for  the  last  kind 
word  ye  never  gave  him.  O,  darlint,  darlint,  take 
heed  of  the  time  whin  he'll  lay  his  poor  owld  gray 
head  down  to  die.  Sure,  thin,  it's  not  your  troubles 
in  this' world  ye'll  be  draming  of.  Ye'll  come  to 
him,  darlint,  like  the  bright  angel  ye'll  be.;  and  ye'll 
raise  yer  two  white  hands  and  take  the  curse  off  of 
him  ;  ye'll  bless  him,  thin,  darlint.  Ye'll  knale  to 
him,  darlint,  and  it's  his  pardon  ye'll  be  asking  thin 
for  the  heart-break  ye  gave  him." 

Nelly.  (Having  shown  the  struggle  in  her  face, 
bows  her  head  and  weeps.)  "  O,  mother !  O,  fa- 
ther !  Forgive  me  and  bless  me  before  I  die." 


AMONG    OTHER   THINGS,    A   QUEER   DEBUT.    235 

She  sinks  into  Mrs.  Dillon's  arms.  Dillon  places 
his  hand  on  her  head.  The  neighbors  uncover  their 
heads  and  bow.  The  curtain  falls  slowly.  There 
was  a  rushing  sound  in  the  auditory.  The  people 
had  arisen  in  a  body.  Then  came  cheers,  loud  and 
prolonged.  Gail  opened  her  eyes  dreamily.  The 
play  had  been  real,  and  the  real  seemed  confused. 
A  sudden  excitement  prevailed  on  the  stage,  aud 
behind  the  scenes.  A  group  of  eager  faces  sur- 
rounded her,  and  poured  praises  in  her  ear. 

"  By  Jove,"  cried  the  manager,  "  you've  carried 
the  house  by  storm,  my  dear!  You've  won  the 
day." 

There  was  a  lull  before  the  curtain,  and  the  mon- 
ster wave  of  emotion  that  had  been  gathering 
through  the  piece  broke  again  into  applause,  that 
shook  the  old  Union  Theatre  to  its  foundation. 
The  excitement  behind  also  increased. 

"Ring  up  on  the  tableau!"  shouted  Lennox. 
"  My  God,  they'll  tear  down  the  building." 

"  Not  yet !  not  yet ! "  vociferated  the  stage  mana- 
ger, who  was  never  collected  in  the  best  of  circum- 
stances, and  who  appeared  to  have  fallen  a  victim 
to  a  species  of  gesticulatory  fit,  in  his  efforts  to 
render  himself  heard  above  the  noise. 

"  O,  good  gracious  F  good  gracious ! "  muttered 
the  prompter  ;  "  what's  to  be  done  ?  Is  any  one 


236  BEHIND    THE   SCENES. 

missing,  sir?  I'm  bless'd  if  I  can  hear  what  you 
say."  In  truth,  the  only  intelligible  word  in  Mr. 
Blowper's  speech  was  damn. 

"  To  your  places,  quick ! "  cried  Lennox  to  the 
actors.  "Now,  Blowper,  in  God's  name,  what's 
amiss  ?  By  the  saints,  we  shall  have  the  benches 
at  our  heads  if  this  goes  on  much  longer." 

"  Ring  up,  Seely,  ring  up,  man  ;  we  are  all  right." 

"  O,  the  dickens ! "  muttered  the  prompter,  as  he 
prepared  to  obey.  "If  something  isn't  done  for 
poor  Blowper,  he'll  be  borne  from  us  in  a  deadly 
swound." 

The  curtain  rose  and  fell  while  yet  the  applause 
was  unabated. 

"By  Jove,  they'll  make  us  close  for  repairs  — 
they  won't  be  satisfied.  Take  her  before  the  cur- 
tain, Haines.  Now,  then,  my  dear,  give  them  your 
prettiest  smile." 

The  little  crowd  fell  back,  and  the  bewildered 
girl  was  led  before  the  audience,  cheered  and  ap- 
plauded to  a  furious  climax.  A  shower  of  flowers, 
a  twinkling  of  gloved  hands,  a  quiver  of  gay  colors 
and  faces,  the  dazzle  of  the  lights  a  moment  be- 
fore her  eyes,  and  a  flitting  emotion  within  her, 
as  if  she  might  either  laugh  or  cry,  and  Gail  had 
passed  across  the  stage,  and  was  again  behind 
the  curtain.  The  brief  commotion  was  suddenly 


AMONG    OTHEH   THINGS,    A    QTIEER   DEBUT.    237 

stilled,  the  lights  put  down,  the  stage  cleared,  and 
Gail  stood  before  her  glass,  wondering,  dreaming 
in  a  flutter  of  blissful  agitation,  with  the  manager's 
last  words  sounding  in  her  ears,  "I  will  see  you 
to-morrow,  my  dear."  She  began  to  realize  that 
her  success  was  unusual.  Never  before  had  the 
audience  failed  to  rise  promptly  some  minutes  be- 
fore the  close  of  the  piece,  and  spoil  the  finale. 
Never  had  there  been  so  much  excitement  and  dis- 
cussion among  the  actors.  Even  Miss  Ceelems' 
demonstrative  indifference  had  been  awed  into 
silence. 


238  BEHIND   THE    SCENES. 


CHAPTER  X. 

WHO  IS   TO  MANAGE? 

ON  the  morrow,  Gail,  m  her  own  room,  reflected, 
exultingly,  over  her  success  of  the  night  previous, 
and  her  possible  future.  A  little  to  her  surprise, 
she  heard  the  well-known  voice  of  Mr.  Lennox 
inquiring  for  her  below>  If  she  had  had  any  doubt 
of"  his  presence,  it  was  speedily  dispelled  by  a 
detachment  of  the  younger  members  of  the  family 
scampering  up  stairs,  and  shouting  to  her,  at  the 
top  of  their  lungs,  "Gail,  Gail!  it's  the  manager; 
it  really  is  ! "  . 

"  Hush,"  said  Gail,  hastening  to  the  head  of  the 
stairs,  with  some  trepidation. 

"You  don't  believe  it,"  cried  the  children,  in 
concert,  "but  it's  true;  just  peep  over  the  banis- 
ters, and  you'll  see  him  for  yourself.  He's  standing 
in  the  entry;  here's  a  good  place  ;  just  look  over." 

The  fact  that  the  manager  was  made  aware  of 
her  exact  locality  did  not  tend  to  compose  Gail. 

"Run  down,"  she  said  aloud,  politely.  "  Ask  the 
gentleman  to  walk  in ;  and  tell  him  I'll  be  down 


WHO   IS    TO   MANAGE  ?  239 

presently."  She  added,  in  an  emphatic  undertone, 
"Not  all  of  you,  for  gracious  sake!  one!"  The 
heedless  children,  however,  swarmed  down  in  a 
body  to  where  Mr.  Lennox  stood,  quite  deserted, 
for  the  two  elder  girls  had  retired  precipitately  on 
catching  a  glimpse  of  his  coat  through  the  side- 
light. 

The  bashfulness  of  the  little  ones  was  put  to 
flight  by  their  united  strength,  and  they  encour- 
aged the  manager  with  cheerful  shouts,  "She's 
coming  down !  She's  coming  down  !  Go  into  the 
parlor ;  you  must ;  she  wants  you  to ;  she  said  so." 

Gail,  who  had  not  lingered  up  stairs  to  make  any 
alteration  in  her  dress,  but  rather  to  change  her 
confusion  for  a  sufficiently  dignified  manner,  did 
not  regain  her  self-possession  when  she  heard  her 
mother's  voice  join  with  the  children's  in  welcom- 
ing the  stranger. 

Mrs.  Hart  came  forward  in  an  unconcealed  flut- 
ter of  excitement.  "  We  are  really  very  glad  to 
see  you,  Mr.  Linton.  (Mrs.  Hart  was  one  of  those 
women  who  "  never  could  remember  names.") 
You  really  must  excuse  the  children.  Our  children 
are  brought  up  to  say  just  what  they  think.  It's 
Mr.  Hart's  way  of  educating  them.  He  believes 
in  free  speech,  and  all  such  things.  Abigail  will 
be  delighted  to  see  you.  She  was  saying  to  me 


240  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

the  other  day,"  continued  Mrs.  Hart,  inventing  a 
flattering  fiction,  "  that  she  wished  Mr.  Linton 
would  come  up  some  time.  She  would  like  to 
show  you  her  books  and  flowers.  You  and  your 
wife,  too,"  went  on  Mrs.  Hart,  mindful  of  the  pro- 
prieties of  life. 

The  manager's  answer  must  have  been  some- 
thing flattering  to  herself,  for  Mrs.  Hart  immedi- 
ately responded, — 

"Yes,  indeed,  our  Gail  is  a  very  great  genius. 
Tow,  as  a  stage-manager,  ought  to  know.  Her 
own  father  says,"  continued  Mrs.  Hart,  laying  great 
stress  on  her  words,  as  if  Mr.  Hart's  evidence  was 
the  most  disinterested  in  the  world,  "that,  as  a 
play-actress,  she  is  equal  to  Charlotte  Cushman ; 
but,  for  the  matter  of  that,  all  my  children  are 
geniuses,  and  always  have  been  from  their  cradle 
upwards." 

"  Why,  no,  we  ain't,  ma,"  said  one  of  the  little 
ones,  who,  in  company  with  two  or  three  others, 
had  formed  a  row  before  the  manager,  in  order 
to  enjoy  the  full  lustre  of  his  presence. 

"Yes,  you  are,"  answered  Mrs.  Hart,  smartly. 
"  Don't  you  know  that  it  isn't  polite  to  contradict 
your  mother  ?  " 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Hart,  again  addressing 
Mr.  Lennox,  "  that  any  of  my  children  would  make 


WHO   IS   TO   MANAGE?  241 

good  play-actors ;  but  then  there's  my  second 
daughter,  Jennie,  she's  quite  a  notion  of  — " 

Gail  entered  at  this  time,  with  a  manner  some- 
what more  cold  than  was  quite  necessary. 

"  Ah,  good  morning,  my  dear,"  said  the  manager, 
rising  to  meet  the  successful  debutante.  "  How  do 
you  find  yourself  after  the  fatigues  of  last  night?" 

"How  very  familiar  in  his  manners!"  thought 
Mrs.  Hart,  "  to  say  my  dear  to  our  Gail ;  so  young 
a  man,  too ;  but  I  suppose  it's  the  way  of  those 
foreigners;  and  I  saw  at  once  that  he  was  an  Eng- 
lishman, or  a  southerner,  and  I  suppose,  by  that, 
that  he's  intemperate  —  they  all  are." 

"  I  merely  dropped  in  this  morning  to  mention," 
said  the  manager,  lowering  his  voice,  "  that  we  con- 
tinue the  piece  till  further  notice.  I  may  depend 
on  your  appearance  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Step  round  to  the  theatre  about  ten  o'clock, 
when  the  office  is  open,  and  we  will  enter  into 
arrangements  about  the  terms.  Good  morning, 
my  dear!" 

"Gail,"  whispered  Mrs.  Hart,  nudging  her 
daughter,  "  why  don't  you  ask  Mr.  Lennox  to  stay 
longer  ?  You  never  seem,  to  know  what's  for  your 
inter —  what's  polite,  child." 

"Thank  you,  madam;  but  we  managers  get 
16 


242  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

little  or  no  time  for  pleasure.  I  congratulate  you 
on  the  possession  of  so  gifted  a  daughter.  Miss 
Abigail  is  looking  this  morning  the  picture  of  all 
that  is  attractive.".  The  mother  smiled  and  nod- 
ded, and  the  daughter  frowned,  while  the  children 
danced  and  capered  about  Gail's  skirt  in  a  most 
embarrassing  manner,  inspired  thereto  by  the  sup- 
posed tender  nature  of  the  manager's  greeting. 

At  the  theatre,  some  hours  later,  the  eye  of  Miss 
Fanny  Ceelems  fell  on  this  notice  in  the  morning's 
paper. 

"  Owing  to  the  unparalleled  and  almost  miracu- 
lous success  of  Miss  Abigail  Hart  in  the  leading 
role,  the  popular  little  drama  of  Nelly's  Fate  will 
continue  to  be  the  attraction,  at  the  Union  Thea- 
tre, for  some  time  to  come." 

Miss  Ceelems  changed  color.  "  Well,  upon  my 
soul !  Do  you  mark  that,  Mrs.  Leamingston  ?  Did 
you  observe  anything  'unparalleled  or  miraculous' 
about  that  business  of  last  night?  My  God,  I 
like  the  impertinence  of  it  too.  I  believe  I  was 
engaged  here  for  leading  business.  A  mere  ballet 
girl!  I  never  was  so  treated  in  any  theatre.  I 
shall  speak  to  the  management  directly." 

"  "Well,  now,  if  you'll  take  my  advice,"  said  Mrs. 
Leamingston,  "  you  won't  say  anything  about  it  at 
all.  The  manager  knows  his  own  business  — " 


WHO   IS    TO    MANAGE?  243 

"  And  I  know  mine,  too,"  said  Fanny ;  "  and  I 
will  not  be  insulted." 

"  I  only  speak  for  your  good,"  began  Mrs.  Leara- 
ingston  ;  but  Fanny  swept  out  of  the  green- 
room to  the  stage.  She  found  the  management  in 
full  force.  Mr.  Lennox,  Mr.  Seely,  and  Mr.  Har- 
ben,  the  lessor,  were  all  present.  Miss  Ceelems 
was  somewhat  abashed;  but  she  was  too  angry 
and  jealous  to  draw  back.  She  did  not  observe 
that  Gail  also  was  on  the  stage,  waiting,  perhaps, 
for  some  papers  concerning  her  brief  engagement 
to  be  made  out. 

"I  understood  that  I  was  engaged  here  for  the 
leading  business,"  said  Fanny,  in  a  low,  angry  voice, 
to  the  manager. 

"Certainly,  madam,"  answered  Lennox,  with  a 
slight  flush. 

"Then  what  am  I  to  judge  by  this?  —  this  no- 
tice?" Fanny  suppressed  her  anger,  and  assumed 
as  much  politeness  as  she  could. 

"  Nothing,  my  dear  madam.  The  lady  did  well  in 
the  part,  and  we  venture  the  piece  on  trial." 

"  It's  a  mere  star  —  a  —  a  sort  of  star  engage- 
ment," murmured  the  prompter,  soothingly. 

Miss  Ceelems  regarded  him  with  withering  dis- 
dain. "  I  have  not  been  accustomed,"  she  said, 
addressing  the  manager,  "  to  things  of  this  sort. 
It  is  not  whnt  I  expect." 


244  BEHIND    THK   SCENES. 

"But,  my  dear  madam,  we  can't  help  what  you 
expect,"  retaliated  the  prompter,  but  not,  however, 
audibly. 

"  It  does  not  at  all  interfere  with  your  position 
in  the  building,  I  assure  you,"  said  the  manager. 
"It  is  an  entirely  separate  affair.  There  are  no 
lines  in  any  theatre,  except  what  are  subject  to  the 
interests  of  the  place." 

"  The  case  was  not  so  stated  to  me,"  said  Fanny, 
raising  her  voice. 

"  It  is  always  understood,"  replied  the  manager, 
somewhat  impatiently,  but  politely  —  "  always  un- 
derstood." 

"  Interest  1 "  said'  Fanny.  "  I  believe  the  public 
were  well  satisfied  with  my  rendering  of  the  part. 
You  can  consult  the  papers.  I  consider  that  the 
business  belongs  to  me." 

Gail  felt  the  color  leave  her  cheek.  She  under- 
stood little  about  the  rules  and  customs  of  the  thea- 
tre, and  had  little  reason  to  trust  in  the  manager's 
word.  "  Miss  Ceelems  may  be  right,"  she  thought ; 
"  and  in  that  case  it  is  my  duty  to  resign  the  part." 

"Now,  my  dear  Miss  Ceelems,"  said  Lennox, 
with  a  slight  laugh,  but  still  in  a  low  voice,  "a 
lady  of  your  penetration  must  be  aware  that  it  is 
a  part  of  the  duty  of  a  man  in  my  position  to  feel 
the  public  pulse,  and  treat  it  as  it  seems  to  require ; 


WHO    IS    TO    MANAGE?  245 

and  to  that  end,  of  course,  it  would  be  absurd  to 
bind  one's  self." 

"  It's  not  the  part  I  care  for,"  interrupted  Fanny, 
still  louder.  "  But  I  like  to  see  -justice,  and  this  is 
an  imposition,  and  not  for  the  credit  of  the  build- 
ing with  the  public." 

"  This  from  a  girl  whom  I  have  puffed  into  popu- 
larity ! "  muttered  the  manager.  "  I  don't  want  to 
quarrel  with  a  lady,"  he  said  aloud,  his  face  flush- 
ing somewhat  angrily ;  "  but  I  must  trouble  you  to 
remember  that  I  am  manager  in  this  theatre." 

Gail  approached  the  disputants  with  a  resolution 
that  was  painfully  forced.  To  cast  away  a  great 
advantage  was  an  effort ;  but  to  disobey  her  con- 
science was  impossible.  She  said,  briefly,  "It  seems 
to  me  that  the  part  belongs  to  Miss  Ceelems,  and 
therefore  it  is  not  right  for  me  to  take  it." 

"  You  can  do  as  you  please,"  said  the  manager, 
bluntly,  regarding  Gail  with  surprise.  "It  is  a 
matter  of  no  great  importance  to  us.  We  are 
drawing  good  houses  in  any  case.  You  play 
against  your  own  interests,  however.  The  run  of 
a  piece  like  that  would  be  the  making  of  you." 

"I  know  that,"  answered  Gail;  "but  I  can't 
conscientiously  take  advantage  of  it." 

"  Damn ! "  muttered  Mr.  Blowper  to  himself,  im- 
patiently. "  This  is  a  theatre,  I  believe,  and  not  a 


246  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

place  for  preaching.  "We  want  no  petticoat  clergy- 
man here." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Gail,  making,  with  an  effort,  a 
last  appeal,  "Miss  Ceelems  will  consent  to  my 
playing  the  part."  She  turned  to  her  rival,  and 
said,  with  a  mingling  of  pride  and  sensitiveness, 
"  It  would  probably  be  no  loss  to  you,  and,  as  you 
must  see,  an  invaluable  gain  to  me." 

"  Upon  my  soul,"  said  Miss  Ceelems,  more  an- 
grily than  she  had  yet  spoken,  "  your  impertinence 
is  uncalled  for." 

"  Now,  Fanny,"  said  Mrs.  Leamingston,  who  had 
entered  upon  the  scene  a  few  moments  earlier,  and 
who  never  stood  long  under  any  circumstance 
without  having  something  to  say,  "  you'll  excuse 
my  mentioning  it,  my  dear,  but  you  act  very  un- 
wisely. Miss  Hart  speaks  like  a  true  lady.  If  I 
were  in  your  place,  I  should  only  be  too  happy  to 
oblige  her.  Besides,  you  must  see  that  Mr.  Len- 
nox is  in  the  right." 

"What's  the  trouble?  What's  all  this  about?" 
said  old  Harben,  nervously,  making  a  sudden  pause 
before  the  contending  parties. 

"  Damn  it !  as  near  as  I  can  judge,"  said  Len- 
nox, "  we  appear  to  be  rehearsing  '  Much  Ado  about 
Nothing.' " 

"  I  understood  I  was  engaged  here  to  do  leading 
business,"  repeated  Fanny,  sulkily. 


WHO    IS    TO    MANAGE?  247 

"Well,  well,  well  — ain't  you?"  said  Harben. 
"Isn't  she  engaged  for  leading  business,  man- 
ager?" 

.  "Certainly,"  said  Lennox,  with  a  slight  laugh. 
"  The  lady  chooses  to  consider  her  rights  infringed 
upon.  It  does  not  strike  me  so.  This  other  lady," 
explained  the  manager,  "pleased  the  public  so 
well  last  night  that  we  judged  it  best  to  run  the 
piece.  She  is  new  to  the  stage,  and  it  would  be 
of  advantage  to  her." 

"O,  it's  you,  miss  —  is  it?"  said  Mr.  Harben. 
"  You're  the  lady  who  gave  my  wife's  maid  servant 
the  trouble  of  washing  six  extra  pocket-handker- 
chiefs, and  gave  me  the  nightmare  last  night. 
What  do  you  mean  by  stepping  into  other  people's 
leading  business,  and  kicking  up  such  a  devil  of  a 
row?  Do  you  suppose  people  want  to  go  to  a 
funeral  instead  of  a  play  —  eh  ?  " 

Nobody  had  the  heart  to  laugh  except  Mrs. 
Leamingston,  who  tapped  Mr.  Harben  with  her 
play-book,  and  said,  "  O,  you  droll  man ! " 

"  Now,  my  dear  sir,"  said  Mr.  Lennox,  "  there's 
no  interference  with  the  lady's  business.  Our  pro- 
posal to  run  the  piece  is  an  entirely  different  affair, 
as  I  have  assured  her.  It  is  really  absurd  that  a 
lady  of  Miss  Ceelems'  reputation  in  the  profession 
should  think  of  the  matter  for  a  moment.  If  she 


248  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

chooses  to  remain  with  us  for  the  ensuing  season, 
the  same  position  is  open  to  her." 

"  There,  you  hear  that  —  you  hear  that,  marm  ?  " 

said  Harben.  "  Manager 's  right  there.  Miss 

plays  for  the  benefit  of  the  theatre.  It's  a  star 
engagement,  marm." 

"  I  said  so  —  I  said  so,"  murmured  the  prompter 
to  nobody  in  particular,  and  tapping  his  foot  im- 
patiently. 

"  I'm  sure,"  said  Fanny,  somewhat  appeased,  and 
making  a  virtue  of  necessity,  "  the  woman's  wel- 
come to  appear  in  the  part  for  all  me.  I  only 
wanted  to  know  if  I'd  performed  my  duties  here 
satisfactorily." 

"Then  I  can't  see  but  that  we  are  all  right," 
said  Mrs.  Leamingston.  "I  suppose,  my  dear, 
you've  no  scruples  against  continuing  in  the  piece 
now?" 

"Certainly  not,"  responded  Gail,  with  alacrity; 
"  and  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  should  have  had, 
if  I  had  been  better  acquainted  with  the  customs 
of  the  place." 

"  She  will  not  play  here  next  season,  at  all 
events.  I've  blocked  her  game  there,"  murmured 
Miss  Ceelems. 


EXCELSIOR.  249 


CHAPTER    XI. 

EXCELSIOE. 

JULIE'S  rnerry  voice  was  no  longer  heard  singing 
over  her  little  dressing-place.  The  song  that  had 
died  from  her  lips  had  died  from  her  heart  also ; 
and  in  the  place  of  the  vain,  happy,  coquettish 
light  of  her  eyes,  glared  the  care  and  hunger  of 
her  soul.  Her  feet  no  longer  tripped  over  the 
ghosts'  walk  as  they  had  done.  Her  step  grew 
slower  day  by  day.  She  no  longer  came  to  the 
theatre  when  she  was  not  required  in  the  piece; 
and  her  dress  was  always  plain. 

"  That  young  girl  is  not  as  pretty  as  she  prom- 
ised to  be,"  remarked  Mrs.  Leamingston,  looking 
across  the  stage  to  where  Julie  stood  listlessly  in 
the  wing.  "  She  is  not  as  plump.  She  begins  to 
look  peaked." 

"  Perhaps  she  is  ill,"  suggested  Mrs.  Wells,  "  or 
unhappy." 

"Perhaps  so,"  sighed  Mrs.  Leamingston.  "I 
wonder  who  she  is.  I've  inquired  of  several  in 
the  building,  and  no  one  seems  to  know." 


250  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"  I  dare  say  she  has  reason  enough  to  be  secret," 
insinuated  Mrs.  Wells.  "I  was  never  so  much 
mistaken  in  a  young  person  in  my  life.  One 
needn't  have  their  eyes  sharpened  by  their  wits  to 
see  what's  been  going  on.  She  makes  no  secret  of 
that.  If  she  did  but  know  it,  she  renders  herself 
very  annoying  to  Mr.  Lennox." 

"  Well,  now,  my  dear,  do  you  know,"  said  Mrs. 
Leamingston,  "  I've  an  idea  she  don't,  and  that  it's 
as  much  Tommy's  fault  as  it  is  hers.  Hush !  You 
don't  think  she  could  have  heard  us  ?  "  (A  look  of 
trouble  had  come  into  the  child's  face,  and  she  had 
turned,  and  walked  away.)  "  I'm  sorry  for  her." 

As  Julie's  step  became  daily  slower,  so  did  the 
step  of  the  muffled  little  figure  that  stole  down 
the  archway  of  the  stern  old  prison  Julie  had  once 
called  her  home.  It  had  been  many  weeks  since 
the  figure  had  sought  its  old  haunt,  when,  one  day, 
there  came  to  the  place,  with  sad,  weary  feet,  what 
seemed  but  the  ghost  of  it.  This  poor  little  phan- 
tom of  Julie  was  less  cautious  than  the  happy 
child.  It  had  less  life  to  lose.  When  it  arrived  at 
the  archway,  it  hurried,  rather  than  stole,  through 
into  the  yard,  and  climbed  the  trellis  as  if  it  were 
escaping  from  some  invisible  pursuer.  When  the 
little  window  had  been  raised,  and  Julie  stood 
again  in  her  old  room,  she  forced  herself  to  look 


EXCELSIOK.  251 

about  it,  and  it  gave  her  sore  distress.  She  passed 
her  trembling  hand  over  each  dear  object,  and 
pressed  her  cheek  against  it,  and  moaned  out,  "You 
poor  dumb  things,  I've  been  afraid  to  come  back 
and  look  at  you  for  days  and  days.  If  I  could  only 
die,  and  be  still,  like  you.  But  I  can't."  Julie 
walked  to  and  fro,  striving  to  ease  the  aching  of 
her  heart.  Her  throat  was  hot  and  dry,  and  she 
could  not  weep.  She  stopped  for  an  instant  before 
the  bed,  and  drew  from  beneath  the  mattress  her 
father's  picture.  "O  father!"  she  cried,«choking; 
"if  you  were  only  not  dead,  you  would  love  me,  I 
know ;  and  I'd  try  to  be  — "  The  word  Julie 
would  have  uttered  froze  on  her  lips,  and  the 
blood  froze  in  her  veins.  A  heavy  hand  grasped 
her  wrist,  and  shook  the  picture  down  upon  the 
floor.  Without  a  word  Mrs.  Mesher  led  the  terri- 
fied girl  down  to  the  sitting-room,  locked  the  door, 
and  seated  herself.  The  elder  Mesher  was  present, 
and  another.  Julie  gave  one  glance  at  the  other 
figure,  and  the  blood  that  had  been  frozen  spread 
itself  quickly  over  her  face  and  arms.  It  was 
Fred.  She  raised  her  eyes  to  Mrs.  Mesher's  face 
for  an  instant,  with  a  terrified  look  of  appeal,  then 
dropped  them,  and  again  turned  white.  "What 
does  this  mean  ?  "  stammered  Fred,  the  expression 
of  his  face  changing.  "Miss  Ward,  you  are  in 


252  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

trouble.  I  hope  I  am  not  the  occasion.  I  —  I  — 
called  —  " 

"Be  silent!"  said  Mrs.  Mesher,  with  severity, 
"  and  you  shall  learn  what  it  means.  This  guilty 
woman  has  been  a  stranger  to  me  for  the  past 
three  weeks,  and  to  all  respectable  society*  Re- 
main where  you  are.  It  is  fit  she  should  have  wit- 
ness to  her  shame." 

Fred  seated  himself,  dumb  and  at  a  loss,  con- 
fused as  much  by  the  look  he  saw  in  Julie's  face 
as  by  her-  step-mother's  words.  A  feeling  of  angry 
indignation  seemed  to  crouch  within  him,  ready  for 
a  spring.  Mrs.  Mesher  concentrated  the  force  of  her 
rigid,  narrow  soul  into  her  hard,  gray  eyes,  and 
fixed  them  on  Julie.  In  the  poor  girl's  heart,  sick 
with  apprehension,  was  one  lingering  spark  of  hope 
that  Mrs.  Mesher  might  not  have  discovered  her 
love,  but  only  her  appearance  at  the  theatre.  She 
dared  not  ask  mercy  of  the  step-mother;  but,  in- 
voluntarily and  in  silence,  she  prayed  for  it.  "  O 
God,  spare  me  this  blow,  and  I  will  hide  myself 
from  all  human  eyes,  and  die." 

There  was  no  malice  or  mean  passion  in  Mrs. 
Mesher's  eyes  —  only  a  pure,  heartless  sense  of 
duty.  While  J'ulie  prayed  for  mercy,  Mrs.  Mesher 
prayed  also  for  power  to  turn  a  sinful  soul  from  its 
downward  course. 


EXCELSIOR.  253 

A  silence. 

Julie  felt  the  wild  throbbing  of  her  heart. 

The  blow  fell  —  one  word : 

"Adulteress." 

Julie  bowed  her  head ;  her  heart  was  stunned, 
and  grew  suddenly  still'. 

"  A  lie,"  said  Fred,  between  his  teeth.  "  Deny 
it,  Julie." 

Julie's  white  lips  moved,  and  formed  the  words, — 

"The  truth." 

Fred,  in  his  turn,  became  cold  and  dumb. 

"  Woman,  woman  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Mesher,  with  a 
hard,  intense  fervor  in  her  voice,  "  cast  out  of 
your  soul  this  devil  of  vanity  and  lust  that  blinds. 
Look  at  your  vile  sin  in  its  nakedness,  humble 
yourself  in  the  dust,  and  pray  that  the  just  wrath 
of  the  Lord  may  be  averted  from  your  soul,  that 
through  Christ's  atonement  you  may  become  puri- 
fied. Kneel  and  kiss  the  rod  in  my  hands  that 
saves  you;  for  in  fasting,  prayer,  and  chastise- 
ment shall  your  shame  and  vice  be  branded  into 
your  memory,  that  when  you  again  walk  among 
God-fearing  men  and  women,  it  shall  be  with 
humbled  mien." 

"  Behold,  O  servant  of  Satan,"  murmured  Mesh- 
er, addressing  Fred,  "  this  is,  in  '^>nrt,  thy  work, 
who  first  tempted  this  light  and  giddy  mind  into 


254  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

the  house  of  vanity  —  the  theatre.  O,  daughter, 
my  heart  bleeds  for  you;  prepare  your  body  for 
the  rod  ! " 

Mesher  rose,  and  was  about  to  approach  Julie. 
Fred  felt  the  blood  leap  into  his  veins  and  tingle 
in  his  fingers'  ends.  He  clenched  his  fists,  sprang 
up,  and,  with  one  blow,  sent  Mesher  staggering  to 
the  further  end  of  the  room.  He  seized  Julie  in 
his  arms,  and  stopped  for  a  moment,  breathless 
and  panting  with  anger. 

Mesher's  face  turned  a  sickly  yellow,  and  the 
red  spots  upon  it,  caused  by  too  high  living,  shone 
out  disagreeably  plain.  He  reseated  himself,  and, 
with  an  effort,  endeavored  to  assume  his  usual 
meek  smile,  but  without  turning  unto  his  enemy 
his  other  cheek  to  be  smitten.  "Let  him,"  said 
Fred,  when  he  could  force  his  clenched  teeth  to 
move  —  "let  him  who  is  without  sin  among  you 
cast  the  first  stone." 

"We  are  not  here,"  said  Mesher,  assuming  his 
unctuous  affectation  with  much  difficulty,  "to 
listen  to  the  wisdom  of  babes  and  sucklings." 

"If  you  read  your  Bible,"  cried  Fred,  "you  will 
find  the  words  I  have  spoken  in  the  mouth  of 
Christ.  Which  are  you  pleased  to  term  him  —  a 
babe  or  a  sucking?" 

The  spots  in  Mesher's  face  deepened. 


EXCELSIOR.  255 

"You  are  neither  of  you  without  sin,"  cried 
Fred,  his  brain  on  fire  with  indignation.  "You 
are  neither  of  you  guiltless  of  Julie's  misfortune. 
If  you  hadn't  stigmatized  every  pure  and  natural 
appetite  as  a  vanity  and  a  sin,  she  would  have 
known  better  what  was  right  and  what  was  wrong. 
If  you  hadn't  cheated  her  out  of  all  natural  pleas- 
ure at  home,  she  would  not  have  sought  it  else- 
where. If  you  hadn't  turned  away  every  honest 
lover,  she  would  not  have  loved  a  dishonest  one." 

"Profane  not  the  sacred  word  love"  began 
Mesher. 

But  Fred  raised  his  voice,  and  continued:  "If 
you  had  shown  her  a  little  human  love,  and  allowed 
her  to  enjoy  a  little  good,  honest,  worldly  plensnre, 
—  if  you  had  not  taught  her  a  religion  which 
makes  God  hateful  rather  than  lovely —  But  I 
don't  lay  it  all  to  your  religion.  You  are  a  cruel 
woman,  and  I  don't  need  to  know  Julie's  story  to 
know  that  even  if  she  was  herself  in  fault,  she  is 
as  good  a  creation  of  the  Lord  as  you  are ;  and  as 
for  you,  you  old  hypocrite,"  added  Fred,  with  con- 
tempt, "  your  motives  in  the  matter  are  almost  too 
contemptible  to  waste  words  upon.  You  wanted 
to  throw  Julie  into  the  meanest  kind  of  slavery, 
because  you  knew  she  owned  a  portion  of  this 
house,  and  you  had  no  objection  to  getting  it  away 


256  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

from  her."  Fred  had  spoken  with  such  over- 
whelming intensity  that  even  Mrs.  Mesher  was 
surprised  into  silence,  while  Mesher  expressed  the 
torture  of  a  shocked  soul  in  a  succession  of  facial 
contortions. 

"  Look  up,  Julie,  and  don't  mind  them,"  said 
Fred,  suddenly  choking  with  a  difficulty  of  utter- 
ance he  had  not  experienced  in  addressing  the 
others.  "  There's  a  kinder  creed  than  theirs.  It's 
Christ's,  and  it's  written  in  the  Bible,  too,  and  it's 
in  all  human  and  forgiving  hearts."  Then  Fred 
drew  his  breath  with  an  effort,  and  sobbed  out, 
*'  O,  Julie,  if  you'll  be  my  wife,  I'll  say  God  bless 
you,  for  I  love  you,  Julie.  I  can't  help  it,  and  I 
don't  want  to.  If  there's  any  trespass  to  be  for- 
given, I  forgive,  as  I  know  you  would  forgive  me 
in  the  same  case.  Go  home  with  me.  They'll 
be  kind  to  you  there,  and  we'll  begin  the  world 
again." 

«O  Fred,  don't!  don't!  don't!"  gasped  Julie. 
"  You  hurt  me  worse  than  they  do.  O,  God  bless 
you,  God  bless  you ;  but,  Fred,  I  love  him.  I  do  ! 
Idol" 

Fred  grew  numb  and  cold  again,  and  then  fresh 
anger  filled  his  mind !  "  Damn  him  !  whoever  he 
is,"  he  muttered. 

Mrs.  Mesher  arose,  unlocked  the  door,  and  mo- 


EXCELSIOR.  257 

tioned  Fred  to  be  gone.     "  You  are  standing  be- 
tween this  soul  and  its  salvation,"  she  said. 

Fred  did  not  stir.  "Simon,"  continued  Mrs. 
Mesher,  with  no  change  in  her  voice,  "  it  becomes 
your  duty  to  turn  this  young  man  into  the  street 
by  force." 

Simon  did  not  stir. 

"You'll  not  put  me  out  of  this  house  alive," 
choked  Fred,  "unless  she  goes  with  me;  for  I  would 
not  leave  a  dog  to  your  tender  mercies,  much  less 
a  human  being." 

"Let  us  seek  to  move  the  unregenerate  heart  to 
a  sense  of  its  error  by  tears  and  supplications  of 
brotherly  love,"  murmured  Mesher,  hoarsely.  He 
did  not  like  the  look  of  Fred's  powerful  frame,  and 
the  angry  flash  in  his  eye,  nor  the  feeling  of  his 
clenched  fist,  and  Fred  stood  between  him  and  the 
door. 

"  Don't  mind  me,  Fred,"  whispered  Julie  in  agony, 
"  but  go."  She  gave  a  frightened  glance  about  the 
room,  sprang  through  the  open  door,  and  ran,  not 
into  the  street,  —  for  she  fled  from  Fred  also,  — 
but  up  stairs  into  her  own  room,  stunned  and  ter- 
rified. Suffocated  with  shame  and  grief,  she  forced 
her  trembling  hands  to  open  the  window.  Then, 
half  throwing  herself,  she  dropped  blindly' down  the 
trellis,  and  fled. 
17 


258  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

Mrs.  Mesher  did  not  follow.  She  deemed  Julie 
still  in  her  power. 

Fred,  bewildered  and  still  white  with  anger,  cried 
out,  "  If  there's  any  law  to  prevent  your  cruelty  to 
this  helpless  girl,  you  shall  be  made  to  feel  it." 

In  the  street  Fred  still  lingered  about  the  place, 
indignant  and  tossed  with  horrid  fancies  concern- 
ing Julie's  punishment.  He  made  one  more  effort 
to  rescue  her.  He  slipped  down  the  archway  and 
ascended  to  her  window,  too  reckless  and  full  of 
care  for  any  timidity.  The  room  was  empty ;  Julie 
was  either  a  prisoner,  or  gone  to  one  whom  Fred 
could  not  think  of  without  hate  and  anger. 

And  all  the  while  that  this  strife  and  passion  had 
raged,  in  these  poor  human  brains,  the  snow  had 
been  falling  and  hushing  the  noise  and  rattle  of 
the  city.  Fred  came  forth  into  the  street.  The 
silence  touched  him,  and  his  heart  ached  with  grief 
as  if  love  and  joy  were  murdered. 

This  afternoon  would  be  succeeded  by  the  night 
of  Gail's  benefit.  A^  the  manager's  request  she 
continued  the  play  of  her  debut,  Nelly's  Fate. 
The  night  had  come  on  cold.  The  light  snow  of 
the  afternoon  had  given  place  to  a  rough,  boister- 
ous wind.  It  was  still  snowing;  but  the  snow  no 
longer  fell  in  soft,  large  flakes,  loading  with  jew- 
elled blossoms  every  bare-branched  tree  of  the  Com- 


EXCELSIOR.  259 

mon,  to  glisten  in  the  gas-light,  but  in  fine,  -icy 
needle-points,  that  pricked  the  frozen  cheeks  that 
faced  it.  The  successful  actress  had  no  fear  that 
her  reception  would  be  less  warm  for  the  cold  with- 
out. Every  seat  in  the  theatre  had  been  sold  two 
days  previous,  and  Gail  saw  the  long  line  of  coaches 
standing  before  the  main  entrance,  and  the  coach- 
men swinging  their  arms  to  keep  warm,  and  heard, 
over  the  freezing  snow,  a  muffled  sound,  and  squeak 
of  the  wheels  of  fresh  coaches  arriving  each  mo- 
ment. She  hurried  along  the  dark  passage,  and 
through  the  old  stage  door,  glad  to  feel  the  warm 
air,  of  somewhat  doubtful  purity,  that  greeted 
her  inside.  She  found  James  rubbing  his  hands 
with  quiet  satisfaction.  "  A  severe  night  without 
—  is  it  not,  Miss  Hart  ?  "  he  said  ;  "  and  the  thea- 
tre is  pleasant."  James  could  have  warmed  him- 
self by  a  painted  fire  in  his  worship  of  the  place. 
"  I  pity  those  who  don't  have  a  cheerful  place  to 
be  in  on  a  night  like  this,"  he  continued,  half  aloud 
and  half  in  meditation,  eyeing  fondly  the  broken 
panes  of  the  little  window  on  high,  through  which 
the  wind  blew  sharply. 

Gail  gave  him  a  pleasant  reply,  and  tripped  bi'isk- 
ly  on  her  way.  As  he  stood  watching  her  with  the 
peculiar  dry  zest  with  which  he  regarded  every- 
thing belonging  to  the  building,  he  murmured, 


260  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"  Ah,  that  young  girl  does  honor  to  my  recom- 
mendation." Indeed,  Jamea  looked  upon  Gail  as 
a  sort  of  protegee  of  his.  He  would  say,  "  Miss  Hart 
is  in  my  confidence,  and  any  communication  for 
her  I  will  deliver  with  the  utmost  care ; "  and  to 
Gail  he  would  say,  "  If  there  is  anything  you  re- 
quire in  the  building,  refer  the  matter  to  James 
Hallman.  I  will  attend  personally  that  you  are 
satisfied." 

Crossing  the  stage,  these  words  fell  on  Gail's 
ears  from  one  of  the  wings  —  "Disgraceful !  She 
will  never  come  inside  this  building  after  to-night." 

Gail  ascended  the  stairs  to  her  dressing-room. 
Mrs.  Leamingston  and  Mrs.  Latell  had  not  yet 
arrived,  and  the  room  was  dark.  She  began  un- 
fastening her  shawl.  Something  between  a  moan 
and  a  cry  greeted  her. 

"Is  any  one  in  the  room?"  she  inquired,  gently, 
as  she  turned  up  the  gas.  A  little  figure  sprang 
from  one  of  the  chairs,  and  would  have  fled  past 
her,  but  she  detained  it. 

•'Don't  go,  Julie;  stay  with  me.  You  are  in 
trouble;  perhaps  I  can  help  you.  You  know  we 
are  sisters  to-night,  you  and  I."  Julie  wrung  her 
hands.  "You  don't  know,  I  suppose,"  she  said. 
"  Nobody's  told  you  that  I'm  going  away  to-night, 
never  to  come  back  any  more.  He  wants  me  to. 
He  told  them  to  tell  me." 


EXCELSIOR.  261 

"  Why,  Julie,  how's  this  ?  "  said  Gail,  pained  and 
shocked. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  happened  to  be  so,"  an- 
swered Julie,  her  voice  dry  and  husky,  and  a  help- 
less terror  in  her  eyes.  "  I  didn't  want  to  ask.  I 
didn't  dare  to.  I  only  came  in  here  because  some- 
body else  was  in  my  room  this  afternoon."  Julie 
slipped  past  Gail  with  a  mute  appeal  not  to  be  re- 
sisted, and  went  again  to  her  own  room.  The  gas 
was  not  lighted  there,  and  Julie  sat  in  the  dark, 
enduring  dumbly  the  ache  in  her  heart.  When 
she  was  fleeing  along  the  street,  she  still  clung  to 
her  lost  love ;  but  when  the  news  of  her  discharge 
from  the  theatre  met  her,  her  hope  seemed  to  let 
go  its  hold  on  the  things  of  life,  and  leave  her 
adrift,  with  the  helplessness  of  a  nature  that  carries 
no  guide  in  itself.  Now  and  then  she  moaned,  or 
cried  out  faintly,  as  the  outraged  love  or  the  terror 
and  agony  stirred  in  her  bosom;  but  her  heart  had 
received  too  severe  a  shock  to  be  as  yet  fully  con- 
scious of  its  own  injury. 

"  Why  does  not  Mr.  Lennox  allow  Julie  to  finish 
her  season  here  ? "  inquired  Gail  of  Mrs.  Leam- 
ingston. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  answered  Mrs.  Leamingston, 
"  I  suppose  he  sees  she  is  ill,  and  not  fit  to  be  in 
the  profession  at  all." 


262  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"  The  truth  of  the  matter  is,"  said  Digby,  with 
sarcasm,  "  that  she's  too  thin  to  look  well  on  the 
stage." 

"  The  plain  truth  of  the  matter  is,"  said  Mrs. 
Latell,  with  emphasis,  "that  he's  tired  of  seeing 
her  round.  He  wants  to  be  freer  to  make  love  to 
the  other  ladies.  She  haunts  him  with  those  great 
hollow  eyes  of  hers,  like  a  ghost." 

Gail  hurried  her  dressing,  and  went  into  Julie's 
room.  She  had  thought  of  offering  the  misguided 
girl  kind  advice  and  assistance ;  but  when  she  lit 
Julie's  gas,  and  found  the  child  sitting  with  white 
lips  and  a  vacant  look  in  her  eyes,  she  sought  only 
to  aid  and  comfort  her. 

"  You  are  not  well,  Julie,"  she  said.  "  You  are 
not  well  at  all  to-night.  Don't  try  to  play.  Let 
me  get  some  one  to  take  you  home." 

"  You  can't !  you  can't !  "  said  Julie,  shivering. 
"There's  no  home  there;  and  now  there's  no  place 
anywhere." 

"I  will  tell  you  what  we  will  do,  Julie,"  said 
Gail.  "  You  wrap  up  warm,  and  sit  here,  or  in  the 
green-room  by  the  fire,  and  I'll  get  Mr.  Blowper  to 
let  one  of  the  others  play  your  part.  I'll  go  now. 
I  won't  be  gone  long.  I'll  come  again  and  sit 
with  you." 

Julie   looked   into  Gail's   face   with   a   sort   of 


EXCELSIOR.  263 

frightened,  hungry  surprise,  seized  a  portion  of  her 
dross,  pressed  it  against  her  cheek,  then  dropped  it 
restlessly. 

Gail  kneeled  down  quickly,,  and  drew  Julie  to 
her  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  I'm  so  sorry  things 
went  so  bad  with  you!  Never  mind  now;  come 
home  with  me  after  the  play.  Jennie  and  I  have  a 
nice,  cosy  little  room,  and  you  shall  share  it  with 
us.  You  used  to  belong  to  us,  Julie.  You  didn't 
know  it,  but  you  were  our  little  princess.  That's 
what  we  used  to  call  you,  because  you  was  so  beau- 
tiful. Why,  you  used  to  be  almost  like  one  —  " 

Gail  checked  herself  suddenly,  for  Julie's  head 
fell  forward  upon  the  dressing-place,  and  she 
clenched  her  hands  together  with  a  cry,  terrified 
and  helpless. 

Poor  little  Julie's  soul,  rudderless,  and  drifting 
out  into  a  black,  relentless  sea,  beheld  its  own  fate, 
like  a  cruel  jagged  rock,  against  which  it  must 
perish. 

She  set  her  teeth  into  her  lip  remorselessly,  then 
drew  her  breath,  and  began  to  sob  and  pour  out 
broken  words. 

"There,  there,"  said  Gail,  "we  can  all  talk  it 
over,  and  see  what  can  be  done  to-morrow.  Shall 
I  speak  to  the  prompter  now  ?  I  won't  be  gone  a 
minute." 


264  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

The  poor  heart,  tossed  and  tortured  as  it  was, 
reached  out  for  an  instant,  and  clung  to  this  last 
fragment  of  its  wrecked  life.  Julie  moaned,  — 

"  O,  no,  no !  I  want  to  play  it.  It's  the  last 
time.  I  didn't  mean  to  cry.  I  didn't  want  to  be- 
fore; but  you  cried,  and  seemed  sorry,  and  that 
made  me.  O,  if  you  would  only  —  You  —  you 
—  could  make  him  take  me  back.  If  you' would 
only  ask  him  —  Will  you  ?  I  mean  here  at  the 
theatre.  You  needn't  be  afraid.  I  don't  want  to 
do  wrong:  O,  I  couldn't,  and  think  of  Fred ;  he 
said  something  that  broke  my  heart.  I  only  want 
to  stay  here." 

"  Yes,  Julie,"  answered  Gail. 

"  But  not  right  away,"  sobbed  Julie.  "  By  and 
by,  when  I  tell  you." 

The  girls  descended  to  the  stage  just  in  time  for 
the  bell.  Gail  was  greeted  heartily  by  the  audi- 
ence, and  an  exquisite  wreath  of  fresh  flowers  was 
handed  to  her  from  the  orchestra.  The  gayety  and 
enthusiasm  contrasted  sadly  with  her  pitying  sym- 
pathy for  poor  Julie ;  but  the  case  was  imperative, 
and  she  summoned  the  scenes  before  her,  and 
abandoned  herself  to  the  part.  Perhaps,  touched 
by  Julie's  distress,  she  played  with  even  more  than 
her  wonted  truth  and  naturalness.  The  audience 
called  her  after  every  act,  and  the  manager,  yield- 


EXCELSIOR.  265 

ing  to  the  "magic  of  success,"  found  her  unusu- 
ally attractive,  and  exerted  his  utmost  power  to 
render  himself  agreeable.  Pie  made  love  to  the 
earnest  woman  in  a  manner  more  respectful  than  he 
had  shown  to  the  trusting  child.  He  stood  ready, 
at  each  entrance,  to  receive  her  flowers,  and  when 
it  pleased  her  to  go  there,  to  conduct  her  to  the 
green-room.  He  was  witty,  praised  her  cunningly, 
and  contented  himself  with  such  accidental  touches 
of  her  hand  as  fell  to  his  lot  in  the  transfer  of  the 
bouquets.  Once  only,  tempted  by  the  fine  face 
and  graceful  dignity  of  manner,  and  piqued,  per- 
haps, by  her  cool  self-possession  in  his  presence, 
he  retained  the  hand,  placed  his  arm  about  her 
waist,  and  whispered,  "  You  surpass  all  other  wo- 
men in  power,  and,  by  my  honor,  in  a  year's  time 
you  might  become  the  idol  of  the  public,  and  have 
society  at  your  feet.  For  one,  I'll  own  I'm  capti- 
vated at  the  start.  You  excel  yourself  to-night. 
You  are  positively  radiant." 

"  At  present,"  answered  Gail,  a  little  angrily,  and 
blushing,  "I  must  trouble  you  to  show  me  a  higher 
respect  than  is  due  to  a  wooden  image,  or  a  doll, 
by  removing  your  arm  from  my  waist,  and  honor- 
ing me  with  something  besides  flattery."  Gail  ut- 
tered these  words  with  an  effort;  the  manager's 
conduct  was  embarrassing  and  painful  to  her. 


266  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"My  dear  girl,"  began  Lennox,  soothingly,  but 
without  removing  his  arm,  "you  misunderstand 
me.  I  mean  —  " 

".  There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  misunder- 
stand me,"  answered  Gail,  with  seventy,  disen- 
gaging herself  from  the  embrace  as  she  spoke. 

"Upon  my  soul,"  said  Lennox,  speaking  low, 
and  in  the  same  tone,  but  a  trifle  crest-fallen  and 
ashamed,  "you  draw  the  line  pretty  close.  My 
interest  in  you  is  the  purest  friendship.  You  pos- 
sess genius,  and  —  Well,  I  have  it  in  my  power  to 
aid  you.  Come  now,  my  dear  Miss  Hart,  why  not 
be  friends  with  me  ?  " 

Gail,  stung  to  the  quick  in  the  keen  sense  she 
felt  of  her  outraged  dignity,  stood  apart,  and 
deigned  no  answer. 

"By  Jove,"  thought  the  manager,  "it  won't  do 
for  a  man  to  say  anything  besides  his  prayers  in 
your  presence,  I  see.  —  Now,  for  my  part,"  he  con- 
tinued aloud,  "  I  don't  see  any  harm  in  a  little  con- 
fidence and  familiarity  between  friends ;  but,  'pon 
my  honor,  I  don't  want  to  offend.  I  won't  again, 
I  promise  you.  You'll  forgive  me  —  won't  you? 
Do !  There,  give  us  your  hand  —  unless  that  sort  of 
thing  is  on  the  other  side  of  the  line,  too.  Come ! " 
And  Lennox  approached  Gail,  and,  bending  his 
face  yet  closer  to  hers,  whispered  some  furlher 
pleadings  in-  her  ear. 


EXCELSIOR.  267 

Julie  saw  him  ;  a  sickly  hope  had  lingered  in  her 
heart,  that,  as  it  was  the  last  night,  he  might  have 
some  kind  parting  word  for  her;  but  when  she 
saw  his  face  bent  over  another,  and  read  in  his 
eyes  the  old  look  that  had  once  made  her  dream 
his  love  was  true,  the  poor  sore  wound  in  her 
heart  received  a  new  stab,  that  made  it,  all  un- 
healed  as  it  was,  bleed  afresh.  She  gasped,  and 
pressed  her  thin  hands  convulsively  together  to 
keep  herself  from  crying  out  with  the  pain.  She 
turned  away,  and  crept  off  among  the  scenes,  sob- 
bing faintly.  The  pitiful  little  spark  of  hope  died 
out,  and  Julie  sat  in  the  obscurity  on  an  old  pile 
of  carpets,  rocking  herself  with  a  despairing,  rest- 
less motion,  striving  to  choke  down  the  cruel  ache 
that  swelled  in  her  throat.  Her  short  part  in  the 
piece  was  over  till  the  last  act.  There  was  noth- 
ing to  disturb  her.  The  scenes  and  the  hours 
slipped  away.  It  was  cold  where  she  sat ;  but  a 
fierce  fever  crept  into  her  chilled  blood,  and  her 
head  dropped  heavily  against  the  scene  nearest 
her.  She  retained  only  a  fitful  consciousness  of 
the  bitter  reality;  but  the  ache  remained,  and 
seemed  at  moments  to  be  no  part  of  herself,  but 
some  sick  thing  she  had  in  her  care,  and  suffered 
for.  At  times  she  still  kept  up  the  jogging  mo- 
tion,' as  if  to  hush  and  soothe  this  thing  in  pain, 


268  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

and  at  times  dragged  it  through  her  weary  dreams, 
and  strove  to  cheer  it  on  the  desolate  journey  the 
two  seemed  to  be  taking  together. 

When,  at  last,  the  fever  wore  off,  Julie  fell  into  a 
brief  sleep.  The  cold  again  crept  over  her,  dead- 
ening her  limbs.  From  this  sleep  she  rose  bewil- 
dered and  shivering;  but  the  ache  in  her  heart 
was  less.  She  tried  to  think,  and,  little  by  little, 
her  brain  slowly  took  in  the  reality,  the  full  bitter- 
ness of  which  her  benumbed  senses  no  longer  felt. 
She  rose  from  her  seat,  came  from  her  place  of 
concealment,  and  crept  up  to  a  window,  where  a 
pane  of 'glass  had  been  broken  out.  She  hardly 
heard  the  sounds  on  the  stage  that  had  chafed  her 
wound  and  mocked  her  trouble." 

Something  distant  and  beyond  the  storm  ap- 
pealed to  her,  and  she  strove  to  recall  a  time  long 
past  —  a  time  that  she  had  walked  on  the  Common, 
with  the  stars  shining,  and  the  sweet,  warm  air 
bringing  her  dreams  of  the  country.  There  was 
no  noise,  passion,  or  suffering  then. 

The  wind  blew  the  icy  snow  into  her  face  and 
against  her  thinly-covered  shoulders.  She  raised 
her  little  blue  hand,  and  watched  the  fine  flakes 
fall  upon  it.  They  melted  slowly,  for  the  hand 
was  hardly  less  cold. 

"  Come  out  of  the  draught,"  said  one  of  the  scene- 


EXCELSIOR.  269 

shifters,  roughly,  but  not  unkindly.  "  The  theatre  is 
no  place  for  you  on  a  night  like  this.  You'd  better 
be  at  home  and  in  bed."  Julie  moved  slightly,  as 
if  the  voice  annoyed  her;  but  she  did  not  leave 
the  window.  The  man  presently  came  with  a  bit 
of  board,  and  placed  it  against  the  broken  pane. 
"Let  it  be,  Morris,"  said  Julie,  petulantly.  "I 
want  to  see  the  stars  shine.  The  others  are  too 
dirty  —  the  whole  ones." 

"  God,"  responded  Morris,  "  if  you  can  see  any 
stars  to-night,  your  eyes  are  better  than  most  folks', 
for  it  storms  like  thunder;"  and  Morris  fastened 
the  board  in  securely. 

"  It's  a  going  to  clear  off,"  sobbed  Julie,  sensi- 
tively, "  and  it'll  be  fair  weather  soon.  You  might 
have  let  it  alone,  Morris.  I'm  going  home  to- 
night, and  it's  likely  I'll  never  come  back  again." 

"  Here,  put  yourself  inside  of  this,"  said  Morris, 
divesting  himself  of  his  knit  jacket,  and  wrapping 
it  about  the  child.  "God,"  he  added,  aside,  "if 
I  had  the  managing  of  that  manager,  he'd  get  his 
come-upance,  and  pretty  devilish  quick,  too." 

Gail  came  up  and  whispered  to  Julie,  "  Shall  I 
speak  to  him  now  ?  It's  the  last  act,  and  I  have  a 
long  wait."  Gail's  breath  blew,  a  dying  spark  of 
hope  back  into  life  for  an  instant,  and  a  faint  color 
came  into  Julie's  cheek:  she  glanced  nervously 


270  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

through  the  wings.  The  curtain  had  not  yet 
risen,  and  Lennox  stood  on  the  stage,  laughing  at 
the  moment,  and  joking  carelessly  with  a  group 
of  the  actors.  To  Julie  he  looked  so  handsome 
and  powerful  that  she  turned  to  Gail  with  a-look 
of  pain  in  her  white,  thin  face,  and  said,  low,  "No, 
not  just  now;  he  is  talking  with  some  one,  and 
may  not  like  it :  wait  a  little." 

"Why,  Julie,"  said  Gail,  "you  have  lost  your 
shawl,  and  you  are  shivering  with  the  cold." 

Julie  had  made  no  effort  to  keep  the  jacket  about 
her,  and  it  had  fallen  to  the  floor. 

"  Come  with  me  into  the  green-room,"  Gail  con- 
tinued, "  and  let  us  sit  by  the  fire.  I  feel  sure  all 
will  —  "  Gail  stopped. 

"  My  God,"  whispered  Morris,  "  take  her  in  your 
arms,  Miss  Hart ;  she's  fainting,  or  dying." 

"Who  is?  What  is  the  matter?"  cried  voices 
about  Gail ;  and  in  an  instant  there  was  a  hush  in 
the  theatre,  and  a  group  of  blanched  faces  gath- 
ered on  the  spot.  Gail  and  Mrs.  Leamingston 
carried  Julie  gently  into  the  green-room.  The 
others  followed,  awe-struck  and  terrified. 

"  Run  for  the  doctor,"  whispered  Mrs.  Latell. 

"  Some  one  has  gone,"  was  answered,  in  a  low 
tone. 

They  laid  her  on  a  settee,  bowed  their  heads, 


EXCELSIOR.  271 

and  watched.  No  one  spoke.  No  one  brought 
water  or  restoratives.  The  change  that  had'  crept 
over  the  face  said  too  plainly  — Death.  Gail  knelt 
down  trembling,  and  touched  the  hand  timidly 
and  with  reverence ;  but  she  dared  not  utter  the 
familiar  name.  A  vague  sense  that  she  might  dis- 
turb the  soul,  perhaps  already  in  the  presence  of 
God,  or  trespass  with  rude  effect  on  the  mystery 
of  death,  withheld  her. 

The  first  ghastly  touch  of  the  destroyer  that  had 
brought  a  look  of  mortal  suffering  into  the  face,  as 
it  drew  from  it  all  the  warm,  wonderful  beauty  of 
life,  was  over;  and  perhaps  now  the  bright  children 
came  trooping  around,  ready  to  awaken  the  poor 
spirit  from  its  tragic  earthly  dream  into  a  happier 
world.  For  all  the  care  and  the  trouble  had  faded 
from  the  features.  Julie  had  gone  home,  never 
more  to  return.  The  awed  silence  that  had  pre- 
vailed was  broken  by  sobs. 

Thomas  Lennox  came  forward  and  looked  at  the 
little  body  whose  last  breath  would  have  excused 
and  blessed  him,  and  whose  last  glance  had  been 
timid  and  fearful  of  him ;  and  it  was  now  his  turn 
to  be  afraid  and  to  shrink. 

The  others  stepped  aside.  None  looked  at  him, 
or  spoke ;  only  the  sobbing  became  more  audible. 
He  was  human,  one  of  them,  and  they  were  sorry 


272  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

for  him.  Perhaps,  too,  they  felt,  and  held  sacred, 
the  presence  of  the  divine  tribunal  that  had  called 
to  the  stand  the  soul  whose  sufferings  might  wit- 
ness against  him. 

Lennox  bowed,  and  his  frame  shook  with  his 
emotions.  The  mute  face,  the  longing  eyes  that 
would  trouble  him  no  more  with  their  too  plain- 
loving  glances,  the  little  feet  that  would  no 
longer  stand  in  his  way,  the  poor  life  that  had 
been  short,  and  not  merry,  touched  him,  and  as 
he  turned  away,  he  sobbed  out,  "  When  I  forget 
you,  Julie,  may  God  forget  me." 

The  men  left  the  room,  and  the  women  took  the 
false  flowers  out  of  Julie's  golden  hair,  and  gently 
wiped  the  paint  from  her  cheeks.  Gail  covered 
the  peasant  dress  with  her  shawl,  that  when  the 
little  wearer  should  be  borne  from  the  theatre, 
no  shocked  instinct  should  trespass  on  kinder 
thoughts. 

Mrs.  Leamingston  said  low,  through  her  weeping, 
*'  Dear  Julie !  she  looks  as  though  she  had  only  fall- 
en asleep.  She  had  a  sweet,  affectionate  nature. 
Don't  you  think  she  had  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Gail,  crying  over  the  poor  lit- 
tle hands  that  bore  the  purple  marks  where  Julie 
had  pressed  them  in  her  suffering. 

When  everything  had  been  done  that  could  be 


EXCELSIOR.  273 

done,  and  Gail  and  Mrs.  Leamingston  stood  look- 
ing at  the  sleeper  in  sorrowful  silence,  the  prompt- 
er came  to  the  door,  and  said,  gently,  — 

"  Shall  we  go  on  with  the  piece,  Miss  Hart  ?  I 
suppose  the  audience  must  be  satisfied  some 
way." 

"Yes,"  answered  Gail.  "I  shall  be  there  in 
time." 

The  women  broke  into  renewed  weeping.  To 
continue  the  piece  at  that  time  seemed  to  them 
unkind  to  poor  Julie.  Each  kissed  the  forehead, 
and  left  the  room.  Gail  covered  the  face,  and 
retired  also,  closing  the  door. 

The  actresses  hushed  their  crying  as  best  they 
might,  and  stood  awaiting  their  cues  grouped  in 
one  wing ;  for  before  the  awful  mystery  of  death 
and  hereafter,  like  children  in  the  dark,  they  un- 
consciously drew  together,  to  feel  each  other's  pres- 
ence. They  still  spoke  low,  and  even  on  the  stage 
were  not  forgetful  of  the  sleep  that  never  could  be 
broken. 

Little  Sissy  Sands  had  been  crouching  outside  the 
green-room  door,  afraid  to  enter.  She  crept  up 
now,  and  pulled  Gail  by  the  sleeve.  "  Say,  Miss 
Hart,  won't  our  Julie  go  to  heaven  because  she  was 
an  actress  ?  She  will  go  there — won't  she  —  say." 

"Yes,  Sissy." 
18 


274  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

"But  my  Sunday  school  teacher  says  theatres 
are  wicked,  and  people  — " 

'"TJsh!"  interrupted  Mrs.  Sands,  but  not  loudly, 
as  was  habitual  to  her.  "  You  'eed  what  your 
Sunday  school  teacher  says ;  and  at  the  same  time, 
Miss  'Art,  you're  quite  right ;  and,  Sissy,  don't  you 
mention  Sunday  schools  'ere,  for,  mind  you,  it's  not 
a  fit  place." 

"  I  loved  Julie,"  said  Sissy,  with  a  sigh.  "  She 
used  to  come  and  sit  by  me  when  I  was  sick,  and 
tell  me  all  about  'a  little  mouse  she  had  when  she 
was  a  little  girl ;  but  it  made  her  cry,  and  say, '  O 
Sissy,  I  wish  I  was  a  child  now.'  Do  you  think, 
now,  that  she  would  go  and  cry  for  a  mouse  that 
happened  so  long  ago  ?  "  added  Sissy,  pausing  sud- 
denly to  make  the  inquiry. 

The  women  glanced  at  each  other. 

"God  knows  how  much  that  poor  girl  suffered 
for  her  fault,"  Mrs.  Latell  murmured. 

"  You  went  into  her  room  to-night  ?  "  whispered 
Mrs.  Leamingston  to  Gail. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Gail. 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  continued  Mrs.  Leaming- 
ston. "  Poor  Julie !  I  don't  know  what  put  it  out  of 
my  head.  I  had  meant  to  look  after  the  child  some. 
She  needed  some  one."  Mr.  Lennox  passed  the 
group  on  his  way  out  of  the  theatre,  and  placed  a 


EXCELSIOR.  275 

note  in  Mrs.  Leamingston's  hand.  Mrs.  Leaming- 
Bton  read  the  note  and  handed  it  to  Gail.  It  was 
from  Mrs.  Mesher,  forbidding  Julie's  further  appear- 
ance at  the  theatre. 

"  That  accounts  for  it,"  said  Mrs.  Leamingston, 
when  Gail  returned  the  note.  "  I  did  wonder  at 
his  sending  the  child  away.  Poor  Tommy,  he's 
careless,  but  he  hasn%  a  hard  heart." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  to  give  us  Julie's  address,"  said 
Gail.  "  But  I  think  Julie  had  separated  from  her 
family." 

"  I  dare  say,  my  dear.  It's  often  so  in  such  cases ; 
but  they'll  be  sorry  enough  now,  poor  things." 

"  She  had  only  a  step-mother,"  said  Gail,  sadly ; 
"and  I  judge  she  gave  Julie  but  little  affection." 

"Is  that  so,  my  dear?  Well,  now,  I  thought,  by 
the  tone  of  the  letter,  that  she  was  a  harsh  woman. 
I  believe,  my  dear,  I  will  take  the  poor  child  home 
with  me  to-night.  I  don't  like  to  interfere  in  these 
matters,  but  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  any  one  think- 
ing unkindly  of  Julie,  on  account  of  her  poor  little 
dress.  So,  my  dear,  if  you  will  ride  with  me,  I'll 
take  her  home,  and  we  can  write  to  the  woman. 
It  is  us,  my  dear  —  is  it  not?"  she  added,  a  few 
moments  after. 

Gail  nodded  assent,  and  the  two  women  took 
their  places  on  the  stage.  The  tears  stalled  in 


276       .  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

Mrs.  Leamingston's  eyes.  "Ah,  my  dear!  those 
people  in  front  little  know  how  heavy-hearted  we 
poor  players  are,  sometimes,  when  we  go  on  for 
their  amusement."  Gail  was  silent,  touched  by 
the  sad  scene  in  which  she  had  just  played  her 
little  part.  The  voices  on  the  other  side  of  the 
flat  struck  a  chill  into  her  heart.  Involuntarily 
she  shuddered  at  the  task  before  her.  To  mimic 
human  pain  and  grief  seemed  to  invade  the  sacred- 
ness  of  real  suffering,  and  to  portray  the  last  sad 
struggle  and  sleep  of  death  was  to  mock  the  poor 
stricken  face  in  the  green-room.  But  deeper  in 
Gail's  nature  lay  too  great  a  reverence  for  God's 
works  not  to  feel  also  that  the  voices  but  seemed 
to  mock,  for  the  soul  respected  and  gave  sympathy, 
and  a  veneration  for  the  Almighty,  too  humble  not 
to  believe  in  the  rights  and  purpose  of  his  crea- 
tion —  genius.  The  actress  felt  that  while  nothing 
in  her  spirit  violated  the  sacredness  of  death,  her 
mission  was  true. 

When  the  last  scene  drew  to  its  close,  and  the 
actors,  bowing  their  heads,  wept,  their  tears  were 
real,  for  each  heart  missed  the  little  figure  that 
would  never  again  kneel  in  its  old  place. 

That  night  Mrs.  Leamingston  and  Gail  took  the 
little  body  between  them  in  the  carriage.  The 
muffled  wheels,  rolling  over  the  new  snow,  seemed 


EXCELSIOE.  277 

to  hold  a  reverential  silence  for  the  dead.  The 
storm  and  the  wind  had  ceased.  The  kind  stars 
looked  down  into  Julie's  sleeping  face,  and,  to 
those  that  watched,  seemed  to  draw  a  smile  from 
the  closed  mouth,  that  had  predicted  their  coming. 
The  storm  in  the  poor  tossed  bosom  was  over  also, 
and  for  Julie  the  fair  weather  had  come.  She 
rested  in  peace,  as  pure  and  qyiet  as  the  snow. 

On  the  morning  following,  a  city  journal  fur- 
nished the  public  with  the  two  items  here  ap- 
pended :  — 

"  DEATH  IN  THE  GREEN-BOOM.  —  The  sudden 
death — by  heart  disease,  it  is  supposed  — of  one  of 
the  members  of  the  Union  Theatre  company  was 
the  occasion  of  the  long  intermission  between  the 
fourth  and  fifth  acts  of  last  evening.  All  those 
who  have  witnessed  the  play  of  Nelly's  Fate  will 
remember  with  pleasant  emotions  the  sweet  face  of 
little  Julie  Ward,  better  known  to  the  public  as 
Josie  Wood,  the  Kittie  Dillon  of  the  piece.  Al- 
though her  part  in  the  piece  was  brief,  like  her 
earthly  existence,  her  lovely  face  once  seen,  and 
the  happy,  child-like  voice  once  heard,  would  not 
readily  fade  from  the  heart.  Miss  Ward  had  only 


278  BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

just  entered  her  seventeenth  year,  and  was  quite 
new  to  the  stage.  Yet  there  are  few  among  her 
associates  in  the  profession,  who  will  not  sincerely 
mourn  her  loss,  for  she  was  one  of  those  happy 
embodied  sunbeams,  too  bright  to  last,  and  too 
rare  to  be  forgotten." 


"ON  DIT.  —  It  is  rumored,  and  popularly  credi- 
ted, that  Miss  Fanny  Ceelems,  the  leading  actress 
of  the  Union  Theatre,  was  secretly  married  to  Mr. 
Richard  Harben,  Jr.,  son  of  the  well-known  mer- 
chant and  principal  lessor  of  the  Union.  An 
attachment  and  understanding  had  long  existed 
between  the  lady  and  young  Harben,  and  the  cause 
of  this  clandestine  movement  is  said  to  have  been 
the  opposition  of  Mr.  Harben,  Sr.,  to  the  match. 
The  habitues  of  the  theatre  will  miss  the  graceful 
figure,  the  handsome  face,  and  the  charming  and  ' 
coquettish  style  of  acting,  that  were  the  peculiar 
and  fascinating  gifts  that  pertained  to  Miss  Cee- 
lems. 

"  It  can  scarcely  be  a  matter  of  speculation  as  to 
who  will  be  the  lady's  successor.  The  public  and 
the  management  will  alike  look  to  the  recent  de- 
butante at  the  benefit  of  Mr.  Joseph  Haines  —  Miss 
Abigail  Hart,  whose  original  conception  and  un- 


EXCELSIOB.  279 

paralleled  presentment  of  the  heroine's  character 
in  Nelly's  Fate  evinced  unquestionable  genius, 
enraptured  the  public,  and  necessitated  a  repe- 
tition of  the  piece  for  many  nights,  and  estab- 
lished herself  as  a  permanent  favorite  with  play- 
goers." 


APPENDIX. 


THE  matter  of  the  author  failing  to  fill  the  paper  of  the 
printer,  a  few  pages  are  here  thrown  in  gratis.  They  may 
prove  useful,  if  not  entertaining,  to  whom  they  may  con- 
cern. 

Human  life  may  well  be  viewed  by  some  of  us  in  three  of 
its  primary  aspects  of  individual,  domestic,  and  social,  as 
related  to  each  other. 

Between  individual  and  social  life  there  must  exist  a  life 
very  distinct  from  either.  It  is  the  life  of  the  family.  So- 
ciety at  large  cannot  be  made  up  of  mere  individuals.  It 
cannot  take  the  place  of  the  family,  or  be  one  great  family, 
except  in  dreams.  It  can  hardly  do  the  office  of  a  family, 
even  as  a  figure  of  speech,  because  the  human  individual 
begins  and  often  ends  life  utterly  helpless.  Society  at  large, 
even  if  so  disposed,  could  help  the  sprawling  and  wail- 
ing little  animated  dumpling,  just  come  into  the  world,  to 
nothing  worth  living  for.  It  takes  a  family  to  minister  to 
and  find  bliss  in  the  care  of  such  a  terrible  little  nuisance. 
It  has  nothing  to  pay,  and  no  other  possible  corporation 
would  trust  it.  The  perfection  of  the  family  is,  that  it 
trusts  it  without  reserve ;  ready  to  make  unlimited  advances, 
tmd  scorning  to  ask  for  any  indorser.  Hence  the  family, 

(281) 


282  APPENDIX. 

and  not  the  individual,  is  the  true  unit  of  society ;  as  the 
tree,  and  not  any  individual  root,  boll,  or  branch,  is  the  unit 
of  the  forest. 

The  joy  of  a  family  is  like  the  joy  of  a  tree ;  to  be  com- 
plete in  itself  and  independent  of  society,  giving  to  the  com- 
mon happiness  as  much  as  it  receives.  Branches  may  wither 
or  be  cut  off.  The  tree  lives  from  age  to  age.  It  is  only 
of  virtuous  and  perennial  families  that  a  glorious  social  life 
can  be  composed.  Society  cannot  make  families.  They 
make  society.  It  can  recognize  their  inestimable  value  and 
cultivate  the  spirit  of  independence  on  which  they  thrive. 
Society  can  frown  on  whatever  threatens  the  sacredness  of 
family  life,  whatever  undermines  its  self-sustaining  force. 
It  can  throw  wide  open  the  doors  to  such  pleasures  as  fami- 
lies can  participate  in,  as  such.  It  can  do  honor  everywhere, 
and  above  all  things,  to  that  duality  of  human  nature  on 
which  family  life  is  founded.  This  life,  in  barbarous  ages, 
has  lacked  half  its  base,  the  father  being  all,  the  mother 
nothing.  The  only  prop  failing,  the  structure  was  in  ruins. 
Civilization  fortifies  family  life  in  proportion  as  it  accords 
equal  honor  and  importance  to  both  parents. 

But  the  most  powerful  agency  which  civilization  hast  yet 
offered  to  promote  the  self-sustaining  energy  of  family  life,  is 
the  system  of  life  insurance.  Families  being,  as  a  rule, 
combinations  of  helpless  and  productive  lives,  the  cessation 
of  the  latter,  in  the  absence  of  accumulated  wealth,  throws 
the  former  a  sure  wreck  upon  society.  This  is  prevented 
by  life  insurance  —  a  system  by  which  the  social  life  is  made 
to  sustain  the  family  life  against  the  greatest  of  calamities, 
without  encroaching  on  its  independence. 

Taking  any  considerable  number  of  human  lives  in  full 


APPENDIX.  283 

vigor,  the  ravages  of  death  will  be  found  to  obey  very 
nearly  a  certain  law,  having  regard  to  age.  If  a  few  thou- 
sand individuals  on  whose-  productive  energy  from  day  to 
day,  and  year  to  year,  the  well-being  of  as  many  families 
depends,  form  an  insurance  or  indemnity  fund,  to  which 
each  contributes  annually  an  easily-spared  sum,  proportioned 
to  his  own  chance  of  having  to  be  indemnified,  every  one  of 
these  families  is  from  that  moment  put  in  possession  of  an 
estate  that  will  sustain  it  after  its  productive  support  is  re- 
moved. 

Of  all  the  money-institutions  of  civilized  society,  the 
Mutual  Life  Insurance  Company  should  be  the  one  most 
affectionately  cherished  by  the  family,  and  the  one  most 
jealously  guarded  by  the  powers  of  society.  Science  can 
have  no  loftier  aim  than  to  contribute  to  the  certainty  and 
equity  of  its  methods.  Philanthropy  will  do  its  very  best  for 
the  race  when  it  persuades  every  family  to  which  death  can 
bring  poverty,  to  resort  to  it. 

Life  insurance,  in  its  present  form,  has  for  its  principal 
founder  llichard  Price,  a  dissenting  minister  in  London,  a 
particular  friend  of  our  Benjamin  Franklin,  arfd  so  great  a 
friend  of  our  revolutionary  fathers,  and  their  principles  of 
liberty  and  independence,  that  Congress  offered  to  pay  his 
expenses  to  this  country  and  give  him  a  handsome  salary 
to  take  charge  of  our  confederate  finances  during  that  great 
struggle.  Nothing  but  his  impaired  health  prevented  his 
becoming  an  American.  His  system  of  life  insurance  has 
stood  the  test  of  a  century,  while  hundreds  of  other  schemes, 
diverging  more  or  less  from  his  principles,  have  gone  to 
wreck.  It  is  a  union  of  savings  bank  and  insurance.  In 
Massachusetts  the  system  is  jealously  guarded  by  law,  and 


284  APPENDIX. 

her  companies  will,  therefore,  being  founded  on  correct  prin- 
ciples, be  as  permanent  as  the  progress  of  society  itself. 
The  law  aims  to  have  them  give. every  man  all  the  insurance 
he  pays  for,  and  they  willingly  do  it.  Already  they  distrib- 
ute a  million  of  dollars  a  year  to  bereaved  families,  and 
every  year  their  power  of  good  increases. 

The  Massachusetts  companies  are  but  a  very  small  part 
of  those  doing  business  in  Massachusetts.  Fifty-six  com- 
panies, having  insurance  to  the  amount  of  fifteen  hundred 
millions  of  dollars,  have  the  Massachusetts  test  applied  to 
them  from  year  to  year,  and  it  is  by  this  only  that  more  than 
half  a  million  families  interested  in  them,  and  scattered  all 
over  the  United  States,  can  form  any  very  correct  judgment 
of  their  management.  In  regard  to  nearly  as  many  others 
the  insured  have  no  such  test,  or  any  other  that  deserves 
consideration. 

The  well-being  of  nearly  a  million  families  in  this  country 
already  depends  on  institutions  for  life  insurance.  Is  it  not 
wonderful  that  we  see  in  social  and  political  life  so  little 
interest  in  this  subject?  We  have  social  and  political  dis- 
cussion in  lecture-rooms  and  innumerable  popular  conven- 
tions on  all  other  subjects.  Why  should  not  the  holders 
of  life  policies  in  every  social  circle  confer  together,  and  by 
delegates  assemble  in  a  national  convention  to  secure  for 
this  great  interest  the  regulation  and  protection  which  it 
needs.  A  state  or  two  have  fostered  it  more  or  less.  As  a 
general  rule,  the  states  merely  tax  it  and  prey  upon  it.  Con- 
gress ignores  it  altogether.  The  whole  interest  is,  in  fact, 
intrusted  to  close  corporations,  and  the  state  laws  which 
hold  them  responsible  to  their  constituents  and  the  public 
are  generally  very  expensive,  while  they  are  by  no  means 
effective. 


NEW  ENGLAND  MUTUAL 


OFFICE  IN  THE  COMPANY'S  BUILDING, 

30     STATE     ST.,    BOSTON. 


Policies  issued  on  the  most  favorable  terms. 
The  greatest  risk  taken  on  a  life,  $2O,OOO. 

Surplus  distributed  among  the  members  annually. 

ALL  POLICIES  NON-FORFEITABLE. 

JTo  Policy  issued  by  this  Company  is  forfeited  until  its 
value  is  worked  out  in  Insiirance.  Special  attention  is  here 
called  to  an  Act  of  the  Massachusetts  Legislature  (Chap.  186),  which 
secures  to  policy-holders,  in  companies  chartered  by  the  authority 
of  this  Commonwealth,  protection  against  the  immediate  forfeiture 
of  Policies  for  non-payment  of  premium.  No  one,  after  examining 
this  Statute,  ivill  forego  the  advantage  of  insuring  in  a  Mas- 
sachusetts Company. 

Forms  of  application  and  pamphlets  of  the  Company  and  its  Re- 
ports, to  be  had  of  its  agents,  or  at  the  office  of  the  Company,  or  for- 
warded by  mail,  if  written  for. 


SEWELL  TAPPAN,  GEORGE  H.  FOLGER, 

M.  P.  WILDER,  JAMES  S.  AMORY, 

CHARLES  HUBBARD,  FRANCIS  C.  LOWELL, 

HOMER  BARTLETT,  JAMES  STURGIS, 

BENJ.  F.  STEVENS,  DWIGHT  FOSTER. 

BENJAMIN  F.  STEVENS,  President. 
JOSEPH  M.  GIBBENS,  Secretary. 

WM.  W.  MORLAND,  Medical  Examiner. 
WALTER  C.  WRIGHT,  Actuary. 


LIFE  INSURANCE  COMPANY, 


SE.AJRS 

Washington  Street,  corner  Court, 
BOSTON. 

ORGANIZED   AS   THE   EXPONENT   OF   THE   NON-FORFEITURE 
LAW   OF   MASSACHUSETTS. 

It  was  the  first  Company  to  proclaim  the  benefits  of  this  Statute 
to  the  public;  the  first  to  make  all  its  Policies  subject  to  this  Statute, 
and  had  "  the  honor  of  the  first  practical  compliance  with  the 
Statute." 

All  the  Profits  are  divided  among  the  Policy-holders.  Dividends 
paid  annually  on  the  Contribution  Plan,  commencing-  one  year 
from  date  of  the  Policy,  and  may  be  used  as  cash  in  payment  of  Pre- 
miums, or  to  purchase  additions  to  Policy. 

Each  Policy  is  Non-Forfeitdble  after  one  payment,  or  the 
holder  is  entitled  to  a  Paid-up  Policy. 

By  reference  to  the  Reports  of  the  Insurance  Commissioner  of  Mas- 
sachusetts, it  will  be  seen  that  this  Company  is  not  surpassed  by  any 
other  in  the  United  States  as  to  security  to  the  Policy-holders. 

GEO.  P.  SANGEE,  President. 
GEOEGE  P.  AGEB,  Secretary. 
J.  C.  WHITE,  Medical  Examiner. 
ELIZUE  WEIGHT,  Actuary. 
F.  HUNTSTEWELL,  Sup't  of  Agencies. 

OUT  Agents  of  integrity  and  ability  wanted  in  different  localities. 


